WERNER'S 


ADINGS  AND  RECITATIONS 


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COMPILED  AND  ARRANGED    BY 


ELISE    WEST 


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NEW  YORK 

EDGAR  S.  WERNER  &  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1907,  by  Edgar  S.  Werner 


166 

102 

19 


I 


CONTENTS, 

PAGE 

Abandoned  Elopement. — Joseph  C.  Lincoln 46 

April  to  March.— Mildred  I.  McNeal 140 

At  the  Shoemaker's if> 

Bachelor  and  Baby. — Margaret  Cameron 143 

Ben  Thomas's  Trial. — Henry  S.  Edwards 38 

Blind  Archer. — A.  Conan  Doyle 179 

Boy's  Idea  of  Christmas. — Lulu  M.  Rorke 152 

Brer  Rabbit  and  Brer  Bear. — Joel  Chandler  Harris 180 

Bridge — and  Its  Exponent ! — Frances  de  Wolfe  Fenwick 108 

Chatterbox. — Frances  Aymar  Mathews JJ 

Christmas  Substitute. — Anna  Sprague  Packard 189 

Come  Back  to  Erin  ! — Rev.  P.  A.  Sheehan 113 

Cowboy. — James  Barton  Adams 85 

'Cupid  and  a  Cadillac. — Anna  Frances  Coote 123 

Dickens's  Christmas  Greeting. — William  Sterling  Battis ....   76 

Dress  Reformer 72 

Drove  Him  Mad 88 

Dublin's  Skyscrapers 178 

Dying  Scout. — William  Lawrence  Chittenden 185 

Economical  Man. — S.  W.  Foss 113 

Elmer  Brown. — James  Whitcomb  Riley 168 

Frenchman   on   the   English    Language. — Edmund   Vance 

Cooke 44 

Gifts. — Emma  Lazarus 15 

Good-Bye,  Little  Boy. — Isabel  Richey 138 

,  Governor's  Last  Levee. — Sara  Beaumont  Kennedy 67 

Green  Grow  the  Rushes  O. — William  Edward  Penny 155 

Harry  of  England. — Julia  Magruder 23 

Her  "No" 132 

Inmate  of  the  Dungeon. — W.  C.  Morrow 128 

Jam  Pots  (action  song) 166 

Jealousy  in  the  Choir 102 

Johanna  Shove's  Easter. — Annie  Hamilton  Donnell 19 

(3) 
T 
o 


4  CONTENTS 

pi 

Johnny's  Elocutionary  Effort 56 

Josiah  Allen's  Political  Aspirations. — Marietta  Holley 159 

Kindergarten  Tut. — Fred  Emerson  Brooks lie 

Kiss  Her.— T.  A.  Daly 5^ 

Larxy  Kisses  the  Right  Way. — Jennie  E.  T.  Dowe iidl 

Laughter 5^ 

Lest  We  Forget. — Rudyard  Kipling 13: 

Lover  Without  Arms. — Henry  Davenport 106 

Love's  First  Kiss. — Frank  L.  Stanton 12J 

McSwats  Swear  Off 7 

Man's  Tears. — Clarence  N.  Ousley 5; 

Merely  Mary  Ann. — I.  Zangwill 2i 

Missing  Bobby  Shaftoe. — Jack  Bennett 13c 

Mr.  Dooley  on  Rising  of  the  Subject  Races. — F.  P.  Dunne.  .    5c 

My  Gray  Guinever. — Henry  L.  Turner 16 

My  Trip  to  the  Moon. — F.  Irene  Boise 12 

Nan-tuck-et 5 

Nathan's  Flat. — Edmund  Vance  Cooke 18 

National  Differences 9 

Night  Run  of  the  "  Overland." — Elmore  Elliott  Peake 9: 

Old  Mother  Goose. —  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps.  (With  Lesson- 
Talk) • ( 

One  Girl  and  Three  Views. — Frances  de  Wolfe  Fenwick.  ...    7< 

Only  a  Woman's  Heart 6: 

Opportunity. — John  J .  Ingalls iS< 

Orestes's  Chariot  Race. — Sophocles i6< 

Organ-Boy  to  the  Choir-Girl 131 

Pettison  Twins  at  Kindergarten. — Marion  Hill 17 

Philanthropist 14. 

President  Roosevelt's  1907  Thanksgiving  Proclamation 15 

Pussy  and  the  Lace. — Elizabeth  Cleghorn  Gaskell 6 

Quaker. — Stephen  Adams 13 

"  Save  One  for  Me  " 14 

She  Got  It. — Ella  Gertrude  Gustam 15 

She  Was  It 16 

Sister's  Best  Feller. — Joseph  C.  Lincoln 18 


CONTENTS  6 

- 

PAGE 

Smallest  Boy  in  School 170 

Social  Pariah. — Alexander  Irvine 114 

"  Sois  le  Bienvenu,  Pierre  !  " — Manley  H.  Pike 98 

Spoiled  Child.— T.  A.  Daly 137 

Sue's  Thanksgiving. — Lucy  Marian  Blinn 157 

"  Swing  Low,  Sweet  Chariot." — Myrtle  Reed 34 

Thanksgiving  Eve. — Margaret  Sidney .171 

That  Jersey  Cow 122 

"There  Is  No  Such  Thing  as  Pain." — Henry  C.  Rowland  ...    80 

"Too  Young  to  Know" 172 

Tramp  Musician. — William  Grant  Brooks 89 

True  to  Brother  Spear 65 

Two  Little  Sunbonnets. — Annie  Hamilton  Donnell 103 

Village  Mystery. — J.  L.  Harbour 86 

Wail  of  a  Waitress.— Ethel  M.  Kelley 188 

What  He  Was 186 

What  the  Wind  Says.— Zitella  Cocke 139 

When  Angeline  a-Shopping  Goes. — Harold  Sussmam 134 

When  Grandma  Was  a  Girl. — Ada  A.  Mosher 99 

Why  He  Didn't  Wash 37 


AUTHORS. 


\dams,  James  Barton 

\dams,  Stephen 

3attis,  William  Sterling 

Bennett,  Jack 

31inn,  Lucy  Marian 

3oise,  F.  Irene  , 

3rooks,  Fred  Emerson 

Brooks,  William  Grant 

Cameron,  Margaret 

Chittenden,  William  Lawrence. . . 

Cocke,  Zitella 

Cooke,  Edmund  Vance 44, 

Coote,  Anna  Frances 

ply,  T.  A 58, 

davenport,  Henry 

Oickens,  Charles 

)onnell,  Annie  Hamilton 19, 

)owe,  Jennie  E  T 

)oyle,  A.  Conan , 

)unne,  F.  P 

idwards,  Harry  S 

"enwick,  Frances  de  Wolfe..  .79, 

'oss,  S.  W 

laskell,  Elizabeth  Cleghorn 

iustam,  Ella  Gertrude 

larbour,  J.  L 

larris,  Joel  Chandler 

lill,  Marion 

lolley,  Marietta 

ngalls,  John  J 


85 
i33 

76 
130 

i57 

127 

119 

89 

i43 
185 

i39 
182 
123 

i37 

106 

76 

103 

112 

179 

59 

38 

108 

"3 

63 
158 

86 
180 
*73 
159 
184 


Irvine,  Alexander 114 

Kelley,  Ethel  M 188 

Kennedy,  Sara  Beaumont 67 

Kipling,  Rudyard 135 

Lazarus,  Emma 15 

Lincoln,  Joseph  C 46,  187 

Magruder,  Julia. 23 

Mathews,  Frances  Aymar 77 

McNeal,  Mildred  1 140 

Morrow,  W.  C 128 

Mosher,  Ada  A 99 

Ousley,  Clarence  N 55 

Packard,  Anna  Sprague 189 

Peake,  Elmore  Elliott 92 

Penny,  William  Edward 155 

Phelps,  Elizabeth  S tuart 9 

Pike,  Manley  H 98 

Reed,  Myrtle 34 

Richey,  Isabel 138 

Riley,  James  Whitcomb 168 

Roosevelt,  Theodore 153 

Rorke,  Lulu  M 152 

Rowland,  Henry  C 80 

Sheehan,  Rev.  Cannon  P.  A 113 

Sidney,  Margaret 171 

Sophocles 169 

Stanton,  Frank  L 121 

Sussman,  Harold 134 

Turner,  Henry  L. 163 

Zangwill,  1 28 


(7) 


Werner's 
Readings  and  Recitations 


No.  39. 


Copyright,  1907,  by  Edgar  S.  Werner. 


OLD   MOTHER   GOOSE. 

("HELEN   THAMRE.") 


ELIZABETH   STUART   PHELPS. 


WHEN  the  "Happy  Home  Handel  Association"  of  Havermash 
decided  to  sing  the  oratorio  of  the  "Messiah"  on  Christmas 
ve,  "We  will  have  Thamre,"  said  Joe  Havermash.  Still,  when  he 
eturned  from  Boston  with  Thamre's  contract,  the  whole  town  was 
surprised. 

Christmas  eve  was  wild  and  windy.  A  cheerless  night  for  the 
•>rima-donna  to  come  to  the  small  place.  Half  Havermash  was  at 
the  station  to  meet  her. 

"I  did  not  expect  to  see  so  many  people,"  said  Thamre,  "what 
ire  they  all  here  for?" 

"Oh!  I  suppose  to  see  met"   said  Mr.  Havermash. 

Thamre  laughed, — a  cheery  little  laugh  which  floated  out  to  the 
;ars  of  the  people  in  the  crowd. 

Half-way  within  her  carriage  door  she  paused.  "What  is  that?" 
ihe  asked  suddenly. 


I 


10  WERNER'S  READINGS 

An  old  woman  was  pushing  her  way  through  the  crowd — a  very 
miserable  old  woman.  She  had  a  blanket  shawl  over  her  head  anc 
her  unhealthy  yellow-gray  hair  streamed  out  from  under  it  over  he 
face.  A  crowd  of  villainous  urchins  pursued  her,  pointing  their  finger 
at  her  and  calling  out,  "Old  Mother  Goose!  Mother  Goose  is  ou 
buyin'  Christmas  stockin's  for  her  darter.     Old  Mother  Goose!" 

Everybody  knew  how  Old  Mother  Goose  hated  the  boys,  but  n< 
one  had  ever  seen  her  offer  them  violence  before  that  night.  In  ; 
moment  she  had  grown  erect  and  awful  to  see,  rearing  her  gaunt  figun 
to  its  full  height  against  the  steel  and  blood-colored  background  of  th 
wintry  sky. 

"You  stop  that!"    she  cried. 

Much  disturbed  by  the  annoyance  of  the  scene,  Mr.  Havermas! 
endeavored  to  induce  Thamre  to  enter  the  carriage. 

"What  a  wretched  old  creature,"  said  the  prima  donna,  shivering 
"What  is  her  name,  Mr.  Havermash?" 

"The  boys   call  her  'Old   Mother   Goose.'     Her  name  was  Pes 
Mathers;  they  called  her  Old  Mathers,  and  then  Old  Mother,  and  s 
Old   Mother  Goose,    I  suppose.     Rather  ingenious   of  them,  too, 
think." 

"Oh!  there  she  is  again." 

A  sudden  turn  of  the  carriage  had  brought  them  sharply  upoi 
the  miserable  sight  once  more.  Old  Mother  Goose  was  sitting  stupidb 
in  the  snow  by  the  curbstone. 

"There,"  cried  the  old  woman,  "there's  the  lady.    I'll  see  her  yetfa 
in  spite  of  ye." 

Old  Mother  Goose  staggered  up  from  the  snow,  staring  dully;  bu 
the  picture  framed  in  the  carriage  window  flashed  by  her  in  an  instant 
For  an  instant  only,  the  two  women  looked  each  other  in  the  eye. 

"I've  seen  enough,"  said  Thamre,  half  to  herself. 

When  she  reached  the  hotel,  she  asked  to  be  left  alone  until  thff1 
hour  of  the  concert. 

Curtained  and  locked  in  Havermash's  grand  suite  of  rooms,  shi 
spent,  we  say,  two  hours  alone.     Yet  in  all  her  life  she  had  never  btfei  I 
less  alone.     With  clinched  hands  she  paced  up  and  down  the  long  ^ 
unhomelike  splendor  of  the  rooms,  for  Helen  Thamre  was  fighting  al 


it 


II 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  39.  11 

le  devils  that  can  haunt  the  soul  of  a  beautiful  and  talented  woman 
)r  her  poor  old  shameful  mother's  sake. 
fal     At  last  her  mother  seemed  actually  present  with  her  in  the  room. 
yhe  forced  herself  to  face  her  and  began  murmuring: 

"Heaven  knows  what  restless  fancy  forced  me  hither.  For  thirteen 
ears  I've  wondered  what  it  would  be  like  to  look  upon  your  face  againt 
tow  could  I  know  it  would  be  like  what  it  is?  So  sad,  so  wretched. 
d  alone.  I  never  left  you  to  suffer.  The  first  ten-dollar  bill  I  ever 
arned  I  sent  to  you.     If  you  would  have  rum  for  ii,  am  I  to  blame  ? 

"I've  fought  so  hard  for  my  name  and  fame,  mother;  it  has  been 
long  bitter  task.     Some  time  before  you  die  I'll  seek  you  out,  but 
ot  just  yet,  not  just  yet." 

She  thinks  of  a  certain  Christmas  eve,  wild  like  this,  when  she 
acked  a  little  bundle  of  her  ragged  clothes — thirteen  years  ago  to- 
night. She  remembers  her  songs  in  the  mission  schools  of  the  big  city, 
he  remembers  the  friends  who  heard  her  and  into  whose  hearts  God 
ut  it  to  send  her  abroad  to  be  educated.  She  remembers  the  death 
f  her  master  there,  and  his  mantle  falling  on  her  bewildered  shoulders. 

If  Havermash  should  learn  that  little  Nell  Mathers  is  all  there  is 
f  Helen  Thamre,  what  would  Havermash,  falling  at  her  feet  this 
istant,  do  the  next? 

The  members  of  the  "Happy  Home  Handel  Association"  were 
atisfied  with  the  reception  given  to  their  oratorio.     The  little  hall 
et)</as  crowded  to  the  window-ledges. 

When  Thamre  came  upon  the  stage,  dressed  in  gray  satin  up  to 
le  throat  and  down  to  the  wrists,  the  packed  house  drew  and  held 
s  breath.  Before  she  opened  her  lips,  she  had  conquered  Havermash- 
She  stood  for  an  instant  fluttering,  as  if  her  mind  was  half  made 
p  to  fly.  Then  she  settled  into  her  unapproachable  repose.  Her 
/onderful  eyes  dilated..  The  soul  of  the  music  entered  into  her  and 
tie  became  as  sacred  as  her  theme. 

The  music  was  drawing  near  its  close;    the  Christmas  stars  were 
ut  when  Thamre  glided  into  her  last  solo,  that  grand  vibrating,  pal- 
L  itating  theme 

"If  God  bs  for  us  who  can  be  against  us?" 


12  WERNER'S  READING? 

Shrill  and  sharp  into  the  thrill  of  the  singer's  liquid  clinging  notes 
a  quick  cry  rung  out. 

"Let  me  see  her.  I  can't  a-bear  it  any  longer;  let  me  see  my  gal;" 
and,  forcing  her  way  like  a  stream  through  the  packed  and  startled 
crowd,  Old  Mother  Goose  leaped  upon  the  stage. 

"I  can't  stand  it  any  longer,  Nell.     I've  knowed  ye  ever  since  I 
heard  ye  laugh  at  the  station.     I  didn't  mean  to  disgrace  ye  before 
all  the  people,  but  I  can't  a-bear  to  hear  ye  sing.     I  wouldn't  a-told  I 
on  ye,  I  think,  but  for  the  music  and  the  crazy  feeling  I  had.     'Twas 
most  too  bad  to  spoil  the  piece,  Nelly  dear." 

Mr.  Havermash  took  Old  Mother  Goose  by  the  arm,  saying,  "  The 
woman  is  drunk,  Miss  Thamre.     Come,  Peg,  come." 

But  Thamre  shook  her  head.     She  had  grown  now  deathly  pale. 

"If  you  please,  Mr.  Havermash,  I  should  like  to  know  if  this  poor 
old  woman  has  anything  more  to  say." 

"Nothin'  more.  I'll  go  way  now.  Nothin'  more.  Only  this 
mebbe,  Nelly  dear:  I  says  to  myself,  as  I  sits  there  an'  heard  you 
singin',  'if  God  be  for  me  my  gal  won't  be  against  me;  my  gal  can't 
be  against  me.'" 

It  is  said  that  when  Thamre  stretched  down  her  hand,  and  taking 
the  lean,  uncleanly  fingers  of  Old  Mother  Goose,  pressed  them  gently 
and  tenderly  to  her  heart,  she  heard  the  break  of  sobs  in  the  breathless 
house. 

"Ladies  and  Gentlemen,"  she  lifted  the  old  woman's  hand  that  all 
might  see, — "I  am  sorry  that  your  entertainment  should  be  disturbed. 
If  you  will  excuse  me,  I  will  leave  you  now,  and  take — my  mother — 
home." 


Lesson-Talk  on  "Old  Mother   Goose." 

Begin  in  a  conversational  tone,  bringing  out  well  the  emphatic 
words  which,  in  the  first  paragraph,  are:  "Happy  Home  Handel 
Association,"  "Havermash,"  "Messiah,"  "Christmas,"  "Thamre," 
"Joe  Havermash,"  "contract,"  "whole  town,"  "surprised." 

There  is  no  gesture  in  this  paragraph.  Speak  slightly  to  left  for 
Havermash 

Bring  out  "wild  and  windy"  with  emphasis  to  express  the  disagree- 
ableness.     "Cheerless"  may  be  treated  in  the  same  way, 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  39.  13 

Speak  slightly  to  right  for  Thamre,  a  happy  tone,  tinged  with 
wonder. 

Let  Mr.  Havermash's  reply  come  in  hearty,  deeper  tones,  with  a 
ripple  of  amusement  pervading  them.  Speak  to  left  for  him.  Put 
joy  and  merriment  into  the  word  "cheery." 

Thamre's  "What  is  that?"  comes  quickly,  the  head  turning  a 
j]  little  to  the  right  as  you  ask  it.  If  it  is  your  impulse  to  do  so,  the  right 
hand  may  be  extended  at  right  oblique,  palm  up,  as  in  indicating. 
Pause  between  "woman"  and  "was  pushing,"  thus  separating  subject 
from  predicate.  Emphasize  "miserable,"  and  let  your  voice  express 
the  meaning  of  the  word.  I  should  employ  no  gesture  in  describing 
the  old  woman's  appearance.  Your  voice  and  face  will  best  express 
the  look  of  misery  she  had.  For  the  calls  of  the  boys  use  three  different 
tones  to  show  the  various  voices.  All  are  insulting.  Shake  your 
forefinger  at  the  same  time.     Let  the  face  be  leering. 

Raise  yourself  to  fullest  height  as  you  picture  the  old  woman's 
i anger.  Lift  clinched  left  hand,  speaking  slightly  to  left  for  her.  Her 
voice  comes  tremulous  with  anger  and  old  age.  Use  a  conversational 
tone  for  the  next  two  lines.  Speak  to  right  for  Thamre,  shuddering 
slightly  as  you  speak.  "Wretched"  and  "name"  are  emphatic  words. 
Speak  to  left  for  Havermash.  Bring  out  plainly  the  transition  of  the 
'"  old  woman's  name.  His  voice  is  deep,  agreeable.  His  last  sentence 
comes  in  a  lighter  pitch. 

Break  in  quickly  with  "  Oh,  there ^he  is  again!"  pointing  to  oblique 
.  right. 

Resume  your  conversational  tone.  Point  low  front  to  indicate 
Mother  Goose  on  the  curbstone. 

Mother  Goose's  words  come  quavering  and  shrill.  Practice  her 
1  tones  until  they  suit  you.  The  voice  of  old  age  is  similar  to  that  of  a 
child, — high,  shrill,  slightly  nasal. 

Let  the  hand  sweep  from  mid  front  out  to  side,  palm  vertical  and 
outward  on  "flashed  by  her."  Let  face  be  calm,  eyes  steady  in  con- 
centration on  level  with  themselves,  on  "looked  each  other  in  the  eye." 

Raise  hand  clinched  as  in  emotion  for  Thamre's  exclamation  which 
may  come  in  half  whisper. 

Bring  out  "  alone  "  in  first  sentence  of  the  next  paragraph  and  "  less  " 
iin  the  next.  Picture  her  agitation  as  she  paces  the  room.  Take  a 
step  or  two  forward  with  tightly  closed  hand,  face  showing  the  strain. 

Bring  out  the  adjectives  strongly  to  show  the  contrast  of  the  char- 
acters of  the  two  women.  In  her  soliloquy  make  the  tones  as  varied 
as  possible.  The  hands  are  restless,  now  clasped  at  ches't,  now  raised 
to  head,  now  clinched  at  sides,  to  express  her  agitation.  Give  value 
to  the  adjectives,  "sad,"  "  wretched,"  "alone."     "Suffer"  is  important. 


14  WERNER'S  READINGS 

She  is  speaking  as  though  really  addressing  her  mother.  Be  earnest, 
sincere,  if  you  would  have  the  audience's  sympathy.  Let  them  realize 
the  long  bitter  struggle  you  have  made  to  gain  renown  and  the  hard- 
ship of  relinquishing  it.  Bring  out  "die"  and  "out"  in  the  last  sen- 
tence, also  "just."  Let  the  last  three  words  come  slowly  with  pauses 
between  them. 

Let  "thirteen  years  ago  to-night"  come  almost  as  monotone  and 
emphatically.  Through  this  paragraph  stand  quite  motionless,  eyes 
steady.  Clasp  hands  tightly  at  chest  at  thought  of  discovery.  "  This  " 
and  "next"  are  of  value. 


Take  a  step  forward,  thus  showing  the  elapse  of  time.  Change 
your  tone  to  a  simple  narrative  one.  On  "  held  its  breath  "  draw  in  a 
deep  breath  to  express  admiration.  "Opened,"  "lips,"  "conquered," 
"Havermash"  are  important. 

Take  a  step  forward  after  "theme,"  before  beginning  the  next 
paragraph.  Let  the  importance  of  your  manner  convey  that  the 
climax  is  approaching.  I  should  employ  no  gesture.  Stand  as  Thamre 
would  with  hands  loosely  clasped  low  front.  If  you  can  sing,  sing  the 
words;  if  not,  speak  them  low  and  tenderly,  emphasis  coming  on 
"God,"  "for,"  "who,"  "against."  Let  the  contrast  be  vivid.  With 
quick  word  action  picture  the  interruption.  On  "forcing  her  way" 
let  both  hands  be  carried  from  midfront  out  to  sides,  then  carry  one 
quickly  front  on  "leaped  up  on  the  stage."  Let  one  hand  be  raised 
quiveringly  on  the  first  sentence,  then  both  may  be  stretched  as  toward 
Thamre  on  the  second.     On  "crazy  feeling"  bring  hand  to  head. 

Put  out  one  hand  as  Mr.  Havermash  says  apologetically,  "The 
woman  is  drunk;"    then  coaxingly  "Come,  Peg,  come." 

Let  Thamre  raise  one  hand  as  to  stop  him,  as  she  speaks  sweetly, 
tenderly. 

Speak  to  right  for  Thamre,  to  left  for  her  mother.  Point  down  in 
audience  for  "sits  there."  Give  value  to  "God,"  "for,"  "gal," 
"against,"  "can't." 

Make  the  movement  of  taking  the  hand  and  bringing  it  to  heart 
as  stated  in  the  next  paragraph. 

Then  on  "lifted  the  old  woman's  hand"  raise  the  left  hand,  closed 
as  though  clasping  another,  and  hold  to  end.  Let  the  "mother"  come 
with  all  tenderness  and  reverence,  raising  the  hand  a  little  as  you  say 
it.  Bow  in  dignified  manner  after  "home,"  to  which  is  also  given 
value. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  39.  15 


GIFTS. 


EMMA   LAZARUS. 


0  WORLD-GOD,  give  me  Wealth!"  the  Egyptian  cried. 
His  prayer  was  granted.     High  as  heaven,  behold 
Palace  and  Pyramid ;  the  brimming  tide 
Of  lavish  Nile  washed  all  his  land  with  gold. 
Armies  of  slaves  toiled  ant-wise  at  his  feet, 
World-circling  traffic  roared  through  mart  and  street, 
His  priests  were  gods,  his  spice-balmed  kings  enshrined, 
Set  death  at  naught  in  rock-ribbed  charnels  deep. 
Seek  Pharaoh's  race  to-day  and  ye  shall  find 
Rust  and  the  moth,  silence  and  dusty  sleep. 

"O  World-God,  give  me  Beauty!"   cried  the  Greek. 

His  prayer  was  granted.     All  the  earth  became 

Plastic  and  vocal  to  his  sense;  each  peak, 

Each  grove,  each  stream,  quick  with  Promethean  flame, 

Peopled  the  world  with  imaged  grace  and  light. 

The  lyre  was  his,  and  his  the  breathing  might 

Of  the  immortal  marble,  his  the  play 

Of  diamond-pointed  thought  and  golden  tongue. 

Go  seek  the  sunshine  race,  ye  find  to-day 

A  broken  column  and  a  lute  unstrung. 

"O  World-god,  give  me  Power!"  the  Roman  cried. 

His  prayer  was  granted.     The  vast  world  was  chained 

A  captive  to  the  chariot  of  his  pride. 

The  blood  of  myriad  provinces  was  drained 

To  feed  that  fierce,  insatiable  red  heart. 

Invulnerably  bulwarked  ever}'  part 

With  serried  legions  and  with  close-meshed  Code, 

Within,  the  burrowing  worm  had  gnawed  its  home. 

A  roofless  ruin  stands  where  once  abode 

The  imperial  race  of  everlasting  Rome. 


16  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"O  Godhead,  give  me  Truth!"   the  Hebrew  cried. 

His  prayer  was  granted.     He  became  the  slave 

Of  the  Idea,  a  pilgrim  far  and  wide, 

Cursed,  hated,  spurned,  and  scourged  with  none  to  save. 

The  Pharaohs  knew  him,  and  when  Greece  beheld, 

His  wisdom  wore  the  hoary  crown  of  ELL 

Beauty  he  hath  foresworn,  and  wealth  and  power. 

Seek  him  to-day,  end  find  in  every  land. 

No  fire  consumes  him,  neither  floods  devour; 

Immortal  through  the  lamp  within  his  hand. 


AT    THE   SHOEMAKER'S. 


A   COMEDY   IN   ONE    ACT. 


Time:   Now. 
Location:   Here. 


fMiss  Bunion,  a  dear  friend  of  many  in 
Dramatis  Persons  :    \       the  audience. 

[  Patient  Salesman. 


TV  /flSS  B.     I  wish  to  see  some  slippers. 


P.  S.     What  sort,  if  you  please,  madam;   bronze? 

Miss  B.     Oh,  no;  patent  leather. 

P.  S.     What  size,  please? 

Miss  B.     I  never  can  remember.     Two-and-a-half,  I  believe. 

P.  S.     I'll  see  by  your  boot,  if  you  will  sit  down  here. 

Miss  B.  [as  he  begins  taking  off  her  boot].  These  boots  are  quite  too 
large. 

P.  S.     Oh,  of  course;  I  merely  want  them  as  a  guide. 

Miss  B.     I  really  don't  know  how  I  came  to  buy  so  large  a  pair. 

P.  S.  [discovering  boots  to  be  threes,  and  too  short  and  narrow  for  foot]. 
It  is  better  walking-boots  should  be  amply  large. 

Miss  B.     But  not  so  loose  as  these,  certainly. 

P.  S.     It  is  better  so. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  39.  17 

Miss  B.     The  slippers  must  be  much  narrower. 

P.  S.     Yes,  madam.     [Shows  a  pair.] 

Miss  B.     Oh,  I  want  Louis  Quinze  heels! 

P.  S.     These,  then,  may  suit.     [Shows  another.'] 

Miss  B.  You  may  try  them.  [Catches  sight  0}  the  size.]  Oh, 
horrors!   I  never  wore  threes-and-half  in  my  life! 

P.  S.  [who  has  been  there  before].  Different  makes,  you  know, 
run  differently. 

Miss  B.  Well,  give  me  a  make  that  runs  the  other  way.  Fancy 
me  wearing  such  a  size  as  that ! 

P.  S.  If  you  will  allow  me  to  try  one  on,  you  can  tell  if  the  style 
pleases  you. 

Miss  B.     Oh,  I  couldn't  even  tell  that  in  such  a  monstrous  slipper! 

P.  S.  [takes  a  three].  Here  is  one  smaller.  [Fits  it  on  with  diffi- 
culty.] 

Miss  B.     No,  that  does  not  feel  right;   it's  too — too — 

P.  S.     Too  narrow,  perhaps  ? 

Miss  B.  N — no,  not  too  narrow.  Too  snug  across  the  instep;  my 
instep  is  so  very  high. 

P.  S.     Perhaps  a  Spanish-arch  instep  would  suit  your  foot  better. 

Miss  B.     I'll  try  one,  then. 

P.  S.  [brings  a  Spanish-arch,  three-and-a-half].  Is  that  more 
comfortable  ? 

Miss  B.     Yes,  I  think  it  is — it  still  draws  a  little  across  the  top. 

P.  S.     I  think  a  shoe  a  trifle  wider  would  relieve  that. 

« 

Miss  B.     Oh,  no,  I  always  use  a  very  slender  last! 

P.  S.     These  high  heels,  too,  throw  the  strain  on  the  instep. 

Miss  B.  I  can't  endure  low  ones.  It's  my  instep.  I  always 
have  difficulty  fitting  that. 

P.  S.  [fitting  another].     How  do  you  find  that? 

Miss  B.  That  is  better.  [Stands  up.]  Yes,  that  is  better  in  the 
heel,  I  think — but  the  toe  is  quite  too  wide. 

P.  S.     That  is  odd;   it's  the  same  size  as  the  other 

Miss  B.     Why,  it  positively  bulges! 

P.  S.     [fits  another].     This  is  narrower. 

Miss  B.     Oh,  that  does  not  feel  comfortable  at  all! 


18  WERNER'S  READINGS 

P.  S.  [in  despair  slips  on  again  the  first  shown].  Try  this, 
madam. 

Miss  B.  That  fits  better;  yes,  and  looks  decidedly  better  in  the 
back. 

P.  S.  [adroitly].     It's  a  very  elegant  little  slipper. 

Miss  B.     Isn't  it  long,  rather. 

P.  S.     I  think  not,  madam. 

Miss  B.     Why,  see,  the  foot  only  comes  to  there! 

P.  S.  Yes;  but  after  you  have  walked  in  the  slippers,  you  will 
find  the  high  heels  will  throw  the  foot  forward. 

Miss  B.  [still  prancing  her  foot  in  and  out  before  mirror].  I  don't 
quite  like  that  square  look  there. 

P.  S.     A  small,  neat  bow  would  take  that  away. 

Miss  B.  Oh,  I  can't  endure  bows;  they  disfigure  the  foot  dread- 
fully. 

P.  S.     It  is  a  matter  of  opinion. 

MissB.  I  believe  I  like  this  pair  better  than  any.  I  think,  perhaps, 
I  will  take  them. 

P.  S.  [cheerfully].     They  are  certainly  an  elegant  fit. 

Miss  B.  Well,  you  may  send  them  to  Mrs.  Benjamin  Bunion, 
9999  Madison  Ave. 

P.  S.  [buttoning  her  boots].  Yes,  madam.  [Takes  bill,  and  goes 
for  change.] 

Miss  B.  [who  has  been  looking  about  in  his  absence].  Let  me  see 
those  bronze  slippers  there  in  the  window. 

P.  S.  [showing  them].     Eight  dollars,  madam. 

Miss  B.     Have  you  them  without  embroidery? 

P.  S.     Yes,  madam.     [Finds  a  pair.] 

Miss  B.     I  think  I'll  try  one.     [Reseats  herself.] 

P.  S.  [takes  off  her  boot].     This  is  your  size. 

Miss  B.     Oh,  no;  really,  it's  much  too  tight — over  the  instep. 

P.  S.     Is  this  better? 

Miss  B.     That's  too  wide. 

P.  S.     Try  this. 

Miss  B.     Oh,  that's  too  wide  across  the  toe! 

P.  S.     Here  is  another. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  39.  19 

Miss  B.  That  feels  well  enough;  but  bronze  slippers  only  look 
veil  with  bronze  silk  stockings. 

P.  S.  [relieved].     They  look  much  better,  certainly. 

Miss  B.  You  may  send  the  patent  leather  ones  I  selected,  and 
'11  come  in  another  day  for  the  bronze. 

P.  S.     Very  well,  madam.     [Sotto  voce.]     I  hope  I'll  be  out! 


jdHANNA   SHOVE'S   EASTER. 


ANNIE   HAMILTON   DONNELL. 


J  T'VE  come  a-begging!" 

L  The  slender  figure  on  the  step-ladder,  washing  Mrs.  Kennett's 
:onservatory  windows,  turned  at  the  sound  of  Josephine's  fresh  young 
foice. 

"But  I  never  encourage  beggars,"  laughed  Mrs.  Kennett. 

"Then  make  an  exception  of  me,"  Josephine  cried.  "I've  had 
such  a  dis-couraging  time,  Mrs.  Kennett!  Nobody's  got  any  lilies, 
ind  everybody's  geraniums  and  begonias  and  things  are  on  a  strike 
md  won't  blossom  for  Easter." 

"Oh,  it's  Easter  you're  begging  for,  is  it?  Well,  I'm  going  to 
relent,  Miss  Josephine,  and  invite  you  in!  But  don't  put  any  cabalistic 
signs  on  my  gate-posts  for  other  beggars  to  read!" 

The  girl  on  the  doorstep  and  the  stately  woman  in  the  doorway 
aughed  in  concert.  On  the  step-ladder  the  slender,  shabby  figure 
urned  to  its  work  again  with  something  like  a  sigh. 

It  was  easy  to  see  what  went  on  inside  the  conservatory;  Mrs. 
Kennett  and  Josephine  went  about  from  pot  to  pot.  Now  and  then 
Josephine  jotted  down  a  memorandum.  The  woman  on  the  step-ladder 
;ould  hear  her  laugh  through  the  glass.     Presently  she  came  out. 

"Oh,  I  feel  just  too  encouraged  for  anything,  Mrs.  Kennett!  One, 
.wo,  three  palms,  and  two  lilies,  and  geraniums  galore!  We  shall 
lave  such  a  beautiful  Easter.  I'm  not  going  to  let  a  single  lily  in 
.his  town  go  unbegged!     We  want  every  one." 

"  Yes,  we  can't  have  too  many  lilies  on  Easter,"  agreed  Mrs.  Ken- 


20  WERNER'S  READINGS 

nett;    "I'm  glad  somebody  has  come  back  from  boarding-school  to 

wake  us  up!" 

"  Well,  I  thought  it  was  time  we  had  a  real  Easter,  so  I  started  in 

a-begging.     I'm  really  proud  of  my  talent  in  that  line.     I  know  I  must 

have  inherited  if  from  some  gypsy  ancestor.  Good-by,  Mrs.  Kennett." 
"Good-by,  my  dear — oh,  wait!  I  hope  you  are  going  to  sing." 
Josephine   flushed.     "Yes,"    she    called    back   shyly,    "I'm   going 

to  sing.     I  couldn't  stand  up  there  without  the  flowers  to  hide  me!" 

»P  3P  *P  *P  3p  »P  3p       ~  *p 

Johanna  Shove  finished  her  window-washing  carefully.  She  was 
renowned  for  her  work;  the  Silverton  housewives  kept  her  busy. 
To-day  she  did  not  hurry  away  as  usual. 

"Well,  Johanna,"  asked  Mrs.  Kennett  kindly. 

"  I'd  wisht,  ma'am,  you'd  tell  me  how  long  it  takes  calla  lilies  to 
bloom  out,  when  they're  budded — real  fat  buds,  you  know." 

"Calla  lilies?  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  guess  they  blossom  in  a  week 
or  two  when  they're  well  under  way." 

"An'  Easter's  Sunday  after  next,  Mis'  Kennett?" 

"  Sunday  after  next — yes.  You  must  go  and  see  the  flowers  and 
hear  Josephine  Fairweather  sing,  Johanna." 

The  woman  in  shabby  clothes  went  away.  Her  thin,  brown  little 
face  was  working  eagerly. 

"There's  a  bud!"  she  murmured  under  her  breath.  "It's  gettin' 
real  fat.     She'll  want  that  one,  too." 

Unconsciously  the  narrow  shoulders  straightened  and  Johanna 
Shove's  figure  took  on  a  gentle  importance.  The  calla  lily  was  her 
one  luxurious  possession,  and  it  was  budded  for  Easter.  "  Every 
lily  in  town,"  that  was  what  Josephine  had  said. 

"An'  my  lily  '11  be  in  town  by  Easter!"  laughed  Johanna  de- 
lightedly. She  walked  faster.  She  forgot  she  was  tired,  and  that 
her  little  shiny  fingers  ached.  She  wanted  to  get  home  to  look  at  her 
calla-lily  bud. 

For  a  week  she  watched  it  anxiously.  Then  it  unrolled  into  sweet, 
white  beauty,  and  she  was  satisfied.  She  set  it  in  the  window,  close 
to  the  pane.  She  wanted  it  to  get  about  that  Johanna  Shove  had  a 
calla  lily  in  bloom;   then  the  girl  would  come  for  it. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  39.  21 

Late  in  the  week  before  Easter,  Johanna  grew  nervously  impatient. 
She  watched  continually  at  the  window,  but  no  one  came.  On  Friday 
she  bought  a  fine  new-glazed  pot  for  the  calla. 

"They  wouldn't  want  it  in  that  tin  can,  of  course,"  she  reasoned 
patiently;  "I'd  rather  it  would  go  to  meetin'  kind  of  fixed  up  than 
to  go  myself.     I'd  a  good  deal  rather." 

Johanna  had  convinced  herself  that  she  could  not  stay  away  from 
church  this  Easter — not  with  her  calla  lily  there  among  the  rest. 

But  there  was  no  money  for  the  modest  little  bonnet  at  Mrs. 
MacBride's  after  she  bought  the  flower-pot. 

Saturday  wore  away.  Johanna  scarcely  ate  her  scanty  dinner. 
Toward  five  o'clock  groups  of  girls  began  to  go  by  with  pots  of  flowers 
in  their  arms,  Josephine  with  the  rest. 

"When  she  comes  back  she'll  see  it."  Johanna  assured  herself 
feverishly. 

"  An'  the  pot  is  so  shiny  an'  handsome,  she'll  notice  that  right  off. 
She'll  want  that,  sure!" 

The  chattering  girls  went  back  and  forth — Josephine  the  gayest, 
liveliest  of  them  all.  But  no  one  looked  at  Johanna's  lily  and  the 
shining  pot.  "  Will  nobody  look  ?  "  Johanna  sobbed  under  her  breath ; 
she  could  hardly  bear  it. 

Josephine  going  by  for  the  last  time  remembered  something  sud- 
denly. 

"Go  on,  girls — I'll  catch  up,"  she  said.  "I've  got  to  run  in  to 
Johanna  Shove's  for  mother.    It's  about  the  windows — I  nearly  forgot." 

Johanna  saw  her  coming.  She  caught  up  the  calla  and  stood, 
waiting,  in  the  door.     Her  lean  little  face  was  radiant. 

"Here  it  is!  I  knew  you'd  come!"  she  cried.  "I've  got  it  all 
ready.  I've  just  watered  it  again.  The  pot's  real  heavy;  if  you'll 
wait,  I'll  carry  it  a  ways  for  you.  If  there's  anybody  comes  along,  I'll 
give  it  to  you  an'  come  right  back.     I  don't  look  decent  to  be  seen." 

Josephine  understood,  and  the  pathos  of  the  little  mystery  appealed 
to  her  instantly. 

" How  lovely  it  is ! "  she  cried.     "We  really  needed  another  lily." 

"  Yes,  I  knew  you'd  want  it.  I  knew  you'd  come.  I'm  real  pleased 
to  let  you  have  it." 


22  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"  And  you'll  come  to-morrow  and  see  where  we  put  it,  won't  you?" 
smiled  Josephine. 

Johanna's  face  sobered.     She  held  out  the  pot  to  the  girl. 

"I'll  go  back  now.  No,  I  ain't  goin'  to  meetin'  to-morrow,  but 
I'm  real  pleased  to  have  my  calla  lily  go.  I  was  bound  it  should  look 
kind  of  fixed  up  for  Easter.     I'd  a  good  deal  rather  so." 

Josephine  followed  the  wistful  gaze  to  the  shiny  pot  in  her  own 
hands.     Again — she  understood. 

"  She  has  no  hat  suitable  to  wear,"  she  thought,  with  a  sob.  Through 
a  mist  of  tears  she  set  the  lily  carefully  down  in  the  front  rank  of  pots 
before  the  pulpit. 

"But  it's  such  a  terrible  pot!"  groaned  one  girl. 

"So  shiny  and  vulgar!     Put  it  where  it  won't  show,  Jo,  do!" 

Josephine  shook  her  pretty  head. 

"Change  any  of  the  others,  girls,  but  I  want  this  one  right  here 
in  front.     Poor  little  lily.     You  cost  too  much  to  be  hidden." 

On  the  way  home  Josephine  stopped  at  Mrs.  MacBride's  to  get 
her  new  hat. 

The  plump  little  milliner  met  her  smilingly,  but  the  girl's  face 
was  serious. 

"You  know  I  couldn't  decide  about  pink  or  white  flowers,  Mrs. 
MacBride?" 

"Yes,  dearie,  so  I  waited.  I've  got  everything  else  done.  I  hope 
it's  the  pink  you've  decided  on,  Miss  Josephine." 

"No,  it  isn't  the  flowers  at  all.  I've  decided  to  have  the  ribbon, 
Mrs.  MacBride.     You  said  that  would  cost  less." 

"Yes.     But  ribbon — really  Miss  Josephine — " 

The  great  spray  of  delicate  pink  flowers  lay  lightly  on  the  pretty 
hat  all  ready  to  be  fastened  on,  and  Mrs.  MacBride  eyed  it  wistfully. 
Her  "art"  was  wounded. 

"How  much  less  will  it  cost,  Mrs.  MacBride?" 

"  One  dollar  and  sixty-nine — we'll  call  it  a  dollar  seventy-five  less, 
Miss  Josephine.  There  is  the  lace — I  shall  take  that  off,  if  you  have 
ribbon  instead  of  flowers.     It  would  destroy  the — ah — unity." 

"Then  I  will  have  the  ribbon,  Mrs.  MacBride."  The  girl  cried 
a  little  tremulously. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   39.  23 

"I  suppose  everybody's  got  a  new  Easter  hat  this  year,"  Josephine 
remarked  casually,  as  she  stood  watching  Mrs.  MacBride's  swift 
fingers. 

"Well,  everybody  but  Johanna  Shove.  She's  been  in  here,  I 
don't  know  how  many  times,  looking  at  that  little  brown  straw  over 
there  with  the  two  rosebuds  in  it.  I  saw  her  smelling  of  those  buds 
the  last  time  she  was  in!" 

"It's  a  nice  little  bonnet  for  a  cheap  one,  and  Johanna  looked  real 
fixed  up  in  it,  but  the  poor  woman  hasn't  any  two  dollars  to  buy  Easter 
bonnets  with,  I  guess.  I'd  let  her  have  it  for  a  dollar  and  a  half  to- 
night." 

"Oh,  would  you!  Then  she  can  have  it,  Mrs.  MacBride.  I'll 
carry  it  to  her  on  my  way  home.  And  I  can  pay  for  it  now,  to  save 
bother."  Mrs.  MacBride  watched  Josephine's  retreating  figure  with 
a  knowing  nod  of  her  small  head. 

"That  was  it,  was  it?" 

On  Easter  morning  Johanna  Shove,  in  the  little  rosebudded  brown 
bonnet,  sat  among  the  worshippers  in  the  foremost  ranks,  with  a 
straight  line  of  vision  from  her  happy  face  to  one  lily  that  reared  its 
white  head  proudly  out  of  a  shiny  pot. 

"Now  is  Christ  risen  from  the  dead,"  chanted  a  girl's  sweet  voice 
in  her  ears,  and  her  happy  heart  was  in  tune  with  the  song  of  thanks- 
giving and  worship. 


HARRY   OF   ENGLAND. 


JULIA  MAGRUDER. 


KATE  CHESTERTON  belonged  to  the  essential  upper-tendom 
of  New  York,  by  virtue  of  both  birth  and  money.  She  was 
very  lovely,  in  a  refined  and  dainty  way  which  made  her  prowess 
in  horsemanship  all  the  more  remarkable  and  bewitching. 

Her  instructor,  Henry  Chalmers,  a  famous  hunter  and  steeplechase 
rider,  had  been  a  neighbor  of  her  grandmother's  place  down  in  Virginia. 
His  home  was  called  "England."     Kate,  when  a  romantic  schoolgirl, 


24  WERNER'S  READINGS 

had  read  "Henry  V.,"  and  from  that  hour  had  endowed  her  Virginia 
friend  with  the  qualities  of  this  hero,  and  had  dubbed  him,  in  her 
heart,  "Harry  of  England,"  and  so  dreamed  of  him  by  day  as  well 
as  by  night. 

Five  years  had  passed  since  she  had  seen  him;  and  Kate,  now 
twenty-one,  was  to  have  the  long-coveted  pleasure  and  pride  of  driving 
her  own  pair  of  spirited  high-steppers  at  the  horse-show  in  New  York. 

The  great  night  came.  The  harness  class,  in  which  Kate's  pair 
"Star  and  Stripe"  was  entered,  was  about  the  middle  of  the  program, 
but  she  was  early  in  her  father's  box. 

The  fourth  class  was  for  middle-weight  hunters,  and  Kate,  as  she 
saw  them  filing  in,  ran  her  eye  eagerly  over  each  one.  As  the  fourth 
horse,  a  splendid  chestnut,  came  into  the  ring,  something  familiar  in 
the  horseman's  manner  made  the  girl  glance  quickly  upward,  from 
his  hands  to  his  face. 

There  he  was,  all  in  white,  just  as  he  used  to  be  riding  through 
those  fields  in  Virginia.  He  did  not  look  toward  the  crowd  at  all, 
but,  swaying  gently  with  his  mount,  he  seemed  to  say:  "There,  now, 
you  needn't  be  so  impatient  to  win.  You'll  do  it  all  right,  but  it  takes 
a  little  time." 

As  for  Kate,  the  blood  rebounded  from  her  heart,  crimsoning  her 
face  and  half  suffocating  her,  as  she  remained  with  her  eyes  fixed 
on  him.  She  was  vaguely  aware  that  some  horses  were  gaited,  some 
refused,  some  blundered,  some  fell,  and  others  went  over  the  jumps 
to  the  cheers  of  the  crowd,  but  all  was  a  blur  on  her  mind  until  Chal- 
mers rode  forward  toward  the  first  jump.  Smoothly,  easily,  brilliantly, 
it  was  taken,  and  the  second  one  as  well;  also  the  third  and  fourth. 
The  crowd  cheered  while  the  rider  looked  neither  to  right  nor  left, 
but  went  forward  to  the  fifth  jump!  This  the  dashing  chestnut  went 
up  to  in  fine  form,  then — refused.  Three  times  he  made  the  effort 
to  get  the  animal  over;  three  times  it  refused.  He  rode  out  of  the 
ring  a  loser!  Kate  ached  with  the  weight  of  her  sympathy  as  he 
disappeared  toward  the  stalls  and  re-appeared  on  foot  and  took  up 
his  stand  a  little  to  one  side  of  the  entrance. 

When  the  time  came  for  her  to  mount,  she  felt  an  utter  lack  of 
courage.     Her  father  urged  her  to  give  it  up. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  39.  25 

"Give  it  up?"  she  answered,  pale  to  the  lips.  "Fail,  I  may,  and 
get  killed,  I  may,  but  give  it  up,  I  won't." 

"Here,  Peters,"  she  said  to  the  groom,  "you  see  that  gentleman 
yonder  by  the  pillar?  Go  quickly  and  tell  him  I  want  him  to  come 
here  at  once." 

"Father,  that  is  Mr.  Chalmers,  who  taught  me  to  drive.  You 
will  give  your  place  to  him.  Then  I  shall  feel  perfectly  calm."  The 
'■■  next  minute,  while  the  band  played  bewilderingly  overhead  and  the 
lights  and  crowds  and  horses  swam  about  her  in  a  sort  of  haze,  she 
rode  into  the  ring,  with  Star  and  Stripe,  stepping  in  splendid  form, 
and  "  Harry  of  England  "  in  the  seat  beside  her. 

Never  had  Star  and  Stripe  so  answered  to  her  demands — never 

had  they  moved  so  superbly — never  looked  so  well,  and  as  Kate,  regu- 

I  lated  by  a  quick  hint  now  and  then  from  her  companion,  put  them 

I  through   their  paces,   the   crowd   became   enthusiastic.     So   beautiful 

was  the  sight  that  the  judges  let  it  go  on  longer  than  seemed  necessary, 

!  before  they  called  Miss  Chesterton's   team  in  and  pinned  on  it  the 

blue  ribbon. 

Then  as  a  clamor  of  applause  went  up,  the  band,  by  some  happy 
intuition,  struck  up  "The  Stars  and  Stripes  Forever,"  and,  with  the 
noisy  music  of  both  band  and  hand-claps  ringing  in  her  ears,  and  the 
man  at  her  side  murmuring  a  sweeter  tribute  yet,  she  drove  the  winners 
once  around  the  ring  and  then  out  at  the  gate. 

Chalmers,  who  was  booked  for  the  next  entry,  disappeared  and  Kate 
returned  to  her  flower-laden  box.  Before  she  had  half-finished  reading 
the  cards,  the  bugle  sounded  for  the  next  class. 

In  they  came,  a  turbulent  lot — green  hunters  all,  who  had  probably 
never  been  under  electric  lights  or  over  tan-bark  before.  It  was  not 
hard  to  pick  out  Chalmers,  and,  once  recognized,  her  gaze  never  left 
him. 

It  was  a  fiery  young  brute  that  he  rode,  and  Kate  saw  him  give 
a  sudden  lunge  just  at  the  jump,  and  fall  heavily  across  it,  flinging 
his  rider  some  feet  away  face  downward  on  the  tan-bark.  There 
was  a  space  of  complete  oblivion  before  she  saw  and  comprehended 
again.  Then  some  men  had  run  to  Chalmers  and  raised  him  to  his 
feet  and  she  saw  him  standing  there,  white  as  the  shirt  he  wore  and 


26  WERNER'S  READINGS 

with  a  great  deep  red  spot  on  one  side  of  his  face.  A  man  had  caught 
his  horse,  which  was  unhurt,  and  Chalmers  now  motioned  imperiously 
for  it  to  be  brought  to  him,  shaking  off  hands  that  would  have  detained 
him  and  going  forward  to  meet  his  mount. 

The  young  brute  was  wild  with  the  excitement  of  his  fall,  and  it 
took  two  men  to  hold  him  while  another  helped  the  rider  up.  Once 
on  his  back,  however,  it  was  easy  to  see  who  was  master.  By  dint  of 
strategy,  Chalmers  got  him  near  the  jump  and  then  suddenly  wheeled 
him  round  to  it.  The  creature  rose  in  the  air  and  soared  over  it  like 
a  bird,  leaving  a  margin  to  spare  that  made  the  crowd  go  wild  with 
acclamation,  and  as  Kate  saw  the  blue  ribbon  fastened  to  Chalmer's 
mount,  fear  gave  way  to  triumphant  pride  in  her  heart. 

He  had  triumphed,  and  his  triumph  was  hers,  but  it  had  cost  them 
both  dear.  As  he  rode  out  of  the  gates,  directly  beneath  her,  she 
leaned  forward  in  a  moment  of  self-forgetfulness,  and  a  large  bunch 
of  violets  in  her  dress  fell  off  and  dropped  upon  his  horse's  neck.  In- 
stantly he  glanced  upward,  bowing  in  acknowledgment.  His  face  was 
ghastly  white,  and  he  made  no  effort  to  smile. 

Mr.  Chesterton,  full  of  gratitude  to  Chalmers  for  aiding  Kate, 
and  fearing  he  had  been  more  injured  by  his  fall  than  he  cared  to 
acknowledge,  hunted  him  up  and  insisted  that  he  come  to  their  house. 

Those  were  happy  days  that  followed ;  and  one  morning  Kate  told 
Chalmers  she  had  engaged  a  box  for  the  Mansfield  first  night  the  fol- 
lowing week. 

"What  is  the  play,"  he  asked. 

"Henry  the  Fifth,"  said  Kate,  and  blushed  to  the  roots  of  her 
hair. 

When  the  curtain  went  up  on  the  fifth  act  they  were  alone  in  the 
box,  for  Kate  had  insisted  that  only  her  father  should  accompany 
them,  and  Mr.  Chesterton  had  left  the  theater  wearied  by  a  play  in 
which  there  were  four  acts  without  a  woman  in  them. 

The  next  scene  was  as  familiar  to  Kate  as  it  was  unfamiliar  to 
Chalmers,  and  the  girl  turned  directly  away  from  him  and  fixed  her 
whole  attention  on  the  stage.  He  did  not  notice  much  the  utterances 
of  the  actors.     How  could  he  ever  hope  to  win  the  love  of  this  en- 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  39.  27 

chantress  at  his  side?    How  could  he  woo  her?     Suddenly  Mansfield 
spoke : 

"Fair  Katharine,  and  most  fair, 
Will  you  vouchsafe  to  teach  a  soldier  terms, 
Such  as  will  enter  at  a  lady's  ear, 
And  plead  his  love-suit  to  her  gentle  heart  ? " 

Chalmers  started  with  surprise: 

"  If  I  could  win  a  lady  at  leap-frog,  or  by  vaulting  into  my  saddle  with  my  armor  on  my 
neck,  or  if  I  might  buffet  for  my  love,  or  bound  my  horse  for  her  favors — "  .  .  .  "What 
sayest  thou,  then,  to  my  lcve?     Speak,  my  fair,  and  fairly,  I  pray  thee.1' 

"Kate." 

The  color  in  her  face  deepened. 

"Kate." 

But  she  was  bending  forward,  as  it  were  to  listen. 

"  And  therefore,  tell  nie,most  fair  Katharine,  will  you  have  me?     Put  off  your  maiden  blushes; 
,  avouch  the  thoughts  of  your  heart  with  the  looks  of  an  empress;   take  me  by  the  hand,  and  say 
'Harry  of  England,  I  am  thine  ! '  " 

He  half  started  to  his  feet. 
By  Jove — what  does  this  mean?" 

"Have  you  never  read  Shakespeare?" 

"But  this  isn't  Shakespeare — it's  me!  And  what's  more,  it's  you. 
'Harry  of  England!'     'Kate'—" 

The  door  opened.     Mr.  Chesterton  had  returned. 

Chalmers  seemed  to  be  dreaming  still,  when  he  found  himself 
seated  at  Kate's  side  driving  homeward.  The  way  was  long  and 
presently  they  were  both  aware  that  Mr.  Chesterton  was  asleep. 

"Kate,"  Chalmers  whispered,  as  he  took  her  hand  gently,  "not 

1  even  Shakespeare  ever  knew  how  I  feel  toward  you.     I've  loved  you 

for  these  many  years,  but  I  never  dreamed  that  you  could  love  me. 

Do  you?     Tell  me,  Kate.     I  can't  wait  until  to-morrow.     Just  one 

word!" 

The  old  gentleman  was  fumbling  sleepily  with  his  latch-key.  He 
saw  and  heard  nothing  as  Kate,  with  a  look  of  an  empress,  took  her 
lover  by  the  hand,  and  said: 

"  Harry  of  England,  I  am  thine  1" 


28  WERNER'S  READINGS 

MERELY   MARY   ANN. 


I.    ZANGWILL. 

[Launcelot,  the  youngest  son  of  an  English  baronet,  has  chosen  to  become  a 
musician,  been  cut  off  by  his  father,  and  alone  in  a  cheap  London  lodging-house 
is  striving  to  keep  soul  and  body  together  till  he  can  sell  his  music,  which  is  too 
high-class  for  the  average  publisher.  The  only  bright  spot  in  his  life  is  Mary 
Ann,  the  little  "slavey  girl"  of  the  lodging-house,  whose  sweetness  and  loyalty 
have  won  his  heart.  He  has  finally  decided  to  leave  London  and  go  into  the 
country  where  amid  the  green  fields  he  hopes  to  regain  his  spirits.  Mary  Ann  is 
so  heait-broken  at  the  idea  that  he  suggests  she  go  with  him,  and  she  joyfully 
consents.] 

IT  was  Friday  afternoon.  Launcelot  gathered  together  his  few 
personal  belongings.  On  the  Monday  the  long  nightmare  would 
be  over.  In  the  midst  of  a  tender  reverie  he  was  awakened  by  ominous 
sounds  from  the  kitchen. 

His  heart  stood  still. 

"Not  another  stroke  of  work  do  you  do  in  my  house,  Mary  Ann!" 
His  blood  ran  cold.    Mary  Ann  had  been  unable  to  keep  the  secret. 

"Not  a  word  about  'im  all  this  time.  Oh,  the  sly  little  thing! 
Who  would  hever  a-believed  it?" 

And  then,  in  the  intervals  of  Mrs.  Leadbatter's  groanings,  there 
came  to  him  the  unmistakable  sound  of  Mary  Ann  sobbing.  He 
threw  open  his  door  and  said,  "Is  there  anything  the  matter?" 

Mrs.  Leadbatter  turned  her  head. 

"His  there  anything  the  matter!"  she  echoed,  slowly  mounting 
the  stairs.  "  You  don't  suppose  as  I  can  keep  a  gel  in  my  kitchen 
as  is  a-goin'  to  'ave  'er  own  nors-end-kerridge ! " 

"Her  own  horse  and  carriage!"  repeated  Launcelot,  utterly  dazed. 
"Whatever  are  you  talking  about?"  » 

"Well — there's  the  letter!  I  don't  know  how  much  two  and  a 
'arf  million  dollars  is — but  it  sounds  unkimmonly  like  a  nors-end- 
kerridge!" 

Launcelot  grasped  at  the  letter  like  a  drunken  man.  It  was  from 
the  vicar  of  the  little  town  where  Mary  Ann  had  spent  her  childhood^ 

"I  have  much  pleasure  in  informing  you  that  our  dear  Mary  Ann 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  39.  29 

,  the  fortunate  inheritress  of  two  and  a  half  million  dollars  by  the 
eath  of  her  brother  Tom.     He  was  rather  a  wild  young  man,  but 
seems  he  became  a  lucky  possessor  of  some  petroleum  wells  which 
lade  him  wealthy  in  a  few  months." 

•  Mrs.  Leadbatter  then  continued:  "There,  listen!  She's  been 
oing  on  like  that  ever  since  I  broke  the  news  to  'er — the  sly  little 
at!  She  wanted  to  go  on  scrubbing  the  kitchen.  'Twasn't  likely  I 
jould  allow  that.  'No,  Mary  Ann,'  says  I,  firmly,  'you're  a  lady 
nd  if  you  don't  know  what's  proper  for  a  lady,  you'd  best  listen  to 
hem  as  does.  You  go  and  buy  yourself  a  dress  and  a  jacket  to  be 
eady  for  that  vicar  who's  been  a  real  good  kind  friend  to  you;  he's 
oming  to  take  3  ou  away  on  Monday,  he  is,  and  how  will  you  look 
q  that  dirty  print?'  And  with  that  I  shoves  a  suvrin  into  'er  hand 
ustead  o'  the  scrubbin'-brush,  and  what  does  she  do?  Why,  busts 
)ut  a-cryin'  and  stares  at  the  suvrin  as  if  I'd  told  her  of  a  funeral  instead 
if  a  fortune! 

"  An'  there's  my  Rosie,  she'll  never  'ave  nobody  to  die  an'  leave 
ier  money,  poor  dear  child,  except  me,  please  Gaud.  It's  only  the 
ools  as  'as  the  luck  in  this  world."  And  Mrs.  Leadbatter  resumed 
ier  panting  progress  upwards. 

Her  last  words  rang  on  in  Launcelot's  ears.  He  was  groping 
>n  the  mantelpiece  for  the  matches  when  a  knock  at  the  door  came. 
ie  struck  a  light,  expecting  to  see  Rosie.     It  was  merely  Mary  Ann. 

But  she  was  no  longer  merely  Mary  Ann,  he  remembered  with  a 
hock. 

And  yet,  was  he  dreaming  ?  Surely  it  was  the  same  winsome  face 
und  the  same  large  pathetic  eyes,  ringed  though  they  were  with  the 
hadow  of  tears. 

"Mary  Ann!"   he  cried  wildly. 

"Yessir." 

"Is  it  true  you've  come  into  two  and  a  half  million  dollars?" 

"Yessir,  and  I've  brought  you  some  tea." 

"But  why  are  you  waiting  on  me,  then?  Don't  you  know  that 
rou — " 

"Please,  Mr.  Launcelot,  I  wanted  to  come  in  and  see  you." 

He  felt  himself  trembling. 


30  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"But  Mrs.  Leadbatter  told  me  she  wouldn't  let  you  do  any  more 
work." 

"I  told  missus  that  I  must;  I  told  her  she  couldn't  get  another  girl 
before  Monday,  and  if  she  didn't  let  me  I  wouldn't  buy  a  new  dress 
with  her  sovereign." 

"  And  so  the  vicar  will  find  you  in  a  pretty  dress." 

"No,  sir.     I  shan't- be  here  when  the  vicar  comes." 

"Why,  where  will  you  be?"  he  said,  his  heart  beginning  to  beat 
fast. 

"With  you,"  she  replied,  with  a  faint  accent  of  surprise. 

"Are  you  foolish?" 

"No,  Mr.  Launcelot!" 

"But  you  talk  as  if  you  were.  You  mustn't  run  away  from  the 
vicar  just  when  he  is  going  to  see  that  you  get  your  money." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  go  with  the  vicar — I  want  to  go  with  you. 
You  said  you  would  take  me  with  you." 

"Yes — but  don't  you — don't  you  understand  that — that  I  can 
wait." 

"Can't  the  vicar  wait?" 

"Listen  to  me,  Mary  Ann.  ' 

"Yessir." 

"You  are  a  young  woman — not  a  baby.  Strive  to  grasp  what  I 
am  going  to  tell  you." 

"Yessir." 

"You  are  now  the  owner  of  two  and  a  half  million  dollars — that  is 
about  five  hundred  thousand  pounds.  Five — hundred  thousand — 
pounds.  Think  of  ten  sovereigns — ten  golden  sovereigns  like  that  Mrs. 
Leadbatter  gave  you  Then  ten  times  as  much  as  that,  and  ten  times 
as  much  as  all  that — and  ten  times  as  much  as  all  that,  and  then — 
and  then  fifty  times  as  much  as  all  that.  Do  you  understand  how 
rich  you  are?" 

"Yessir." 

"  You  see  you  will  be  able  to  live  in  a  fine  manor-house — such  as 
the  squire  lived  in  in  your  village — surrounded  by  a  lovely  park  with 
a  lake  in  it  for  swans  and  boats — " 

"Oh,  but  I  should  like  a  farm  better,  please  sir.     With  cows  and 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  39,  31 

pigs  and  meat  every  day,  and  pudding  on  Sundays!  Oh,  if  father 
was  alive,  wouldn't  he  be  glad!\r 

"Yes,  you  can  have  a  farm — anything  you  like." 

"Oh!  a  piano?" 

"Yes — six  pianos." 

"And  you  will  learn  me  to  play?" 

"  Well,  I  may  not  be  there,  you  see.  Mary  Ann,  don't  you  see 
that  everything  is  altered?" 

"What's  altered ?     You  are  here  and  here  am  I." 

"  Ah,  but  you  are  quite  different  now,  Mary  Ann." 

"I'm  not — I  want  to  be  with  you  just  the  same." 

"You  are  not  the  same  Mary  Ann — to  other  people.  You  are 
a  somebody.  Before,  you  were  a  nobody.  Nobody  cared  or  bothered 
about  you — you  were  no  more  than  a  dead  leaf  whirling  in  the  street." 

"Yes,  you  cared  and  bothered  about  me." 

"But  one  day,  you  will  want  a — a  husband." 

"No,  Mr.  Launcelot,  I  don't  want  a  husband.  I  don't  want  to 
marry.     I  should  never  want  to  go  away  from  you." 

"I  see  you  understand  I'm  not  going  to  marry  you." 

"Yessir." 

"Listen,  Mary  Ann!  Even  if  you  were  fool  enough  to  be  willing 
to  go  with  me,  I  wouldn't  take  you  with  me.  It  would  be  doing  you 
a  terrible  wrong." 

"Why  more  now  than  before?" 

"You're  a  silly  little  baby." 

"You  are  going  away  without  me.     I  shall  never  see  you  again." 

"Be  sensible,  Mary  Ann.    You  will  be — " 

"You  won't  take  me  with  you?" 

"How  can  I  take  you  with  me?  Don't  you  understand  that  it's 
impossible — unless  I  marry  you." -  -""" 

"Can't  you  marry  me,  then?" 

"It  is  impossible." 

"Why  is  it  impossible?     I'll  wait  on  you  just  the  same." 

"Because  I  am  not  good  enough  for  you." 

Mary  Ann  grew  scarlet.  Then  she  broke  into  a  little  nervous 
laugh,  "Oh,  Mr.  Launcelot,  don't  make  fun  of  me." 


32  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"Believe  me,  my  dear,"  he  said  tenderly,  "I  wouldn't  make  fun 
of  you  for  two  million  dollars.  It  is  the  truth — the  bare,  miserable, 
wretched  truth.     I  am  not  worthy  of  you,  Mary  Ann." 

"I  don't  understand  you,  sir." 

"Thank  Heaven  for  that!  If  you  did,  you  would  think  meanly 
of  me  ever  after.  Yes,  that  is  why,  Mary  Ann.  I  am  a  selfish  brute — 
selfish  to  the  last  beat  of  my  heart,  to  the  inmost  essence  of  my  every 
thought.  Does  it  never  strike  you  that  if  I  were  to  marry  you  now/ 
it  would  be  only  for  your  two  and  a  half  million  dollars?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  I  thought  not.  Do  you  know  how  long  it  will  be  before  I  make 
two  million  dollars,  Mary  Ann?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Two  million  years.  Yes,  my  child,  I  can  tell  you  now.  You 
thought  I  was  rich  and  grand,  I  know,  but  all  the  while  I  was  nearly 
a  beggar.  Perhaps  you  thought  I  was  playing  the  piano — yes,  and 
teaching  Rosie— for  my  amusement;  perhaps  you  thought  I  sat  up 
writing  half  the  night  out  of — sleeplessness.  No,  Mary  Ann,  I  have 
to  get  my  own  living  by  hard  work — by  good  work  if  I  can,  by  bad 
work  if  I  must — but  always  by  hard  work.  Don't  look  so  sad,  Mary 
Ann.  I'm  not  blaming  you.  I  want  to  drive  this  into  your  head,  to 
•put  you  on  your  guard.  Though  I  don't  think  myself  good  enough 
to  marry  you,  there  are  lots  of  men  who  will  think  they  are — they 
don't  know  you.  It  is  you,  not  me,  who  are  grand  and  rich,  Mary 
Ann — beware  of  men  like  me — poor  and  selfish.  And  when  you  do 
marry — " 

"Oh,  Mr.  Launcelot!  why  do  you  talk  like  that?  You  know 
I  shall  never  marry  anybody  else." 

"Forget  me,  Mary  Ann.     Promise  me  you  will." 

"Yessir— if  you  will  promise  me." 

"Promise  you  what?" 

"To  do  me  a  favor." 

"Certainly,  dear,  if  I  can." 

"You  have  the  money,  Mr.  Launcelot,  instead  of  me — I  don't 
want  it,  and  then  you  could — " 

"Now,  Mary  Ann,  you're  getting  foolish  again.    It  is  impossible," 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  jg.  33 

"Why  ig  it  impossible?"' 

"Because  there  is  only  one  thing  I  could  ever  bring  myself  to 
ask  you  for  in  this  world." 

"Yes;  what  is  that?" 

He  laid  his  hand  tenderly  on  her  hair. 
,     "Merely  Mary  Ann." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Launcelot,  take  me,  take  me!  You  do  love  me! 
You  do  love  me !" 

"I  am  a  fool.     Good-by,  Mary  Ann." 

"Good-by,  Mr.  Launcelot.  Please  sir,  do  me  a  favor? — 
Nothing  about  money,  sir." 

"Well,  if  I  can,"  he  said  kindly. 

"Couldn't  you  just  play  'Good-night  and  Good-by'  for  the 
last  time  ?" 

"Why,  certainly !  if  it  will  give  you  any  pleasure." 

He  sat  down  to  the  piano,  and  played  the  introduction  softly. 
He  sang  bravely : 

"  Kiss  me  good-night,  dear  love, 
Dream  of  the  old  delight ; 

My  spirit  is  summoned  above, 

Kiss  me,  dear  love,  good-night." 

He  couldn't  go  through  another  verse.  He  jumped  up.  Mary 
Ann  was  crying. 

"I'll  kiss  you,  too,  dear!"  he  said  huskily.  "That'll  be  for 
the  last  time." 

Their  lips  met,  and  then  Mary  Ann  seemed  to  fade  out  of  the 
room  in  a  blur  of  mist. 

"Sw-eet!     Sweet!    Sweet,"  sang  the  canarv. 


She.     What  would  you  do  if  the  postmaster  refused  to  stick 
a  stamp  on  your  letter  ? 

He.     I  should  stick  it  on  myself. 

She.     I  should  not — I  should  stick  it  on  the  letter. 


V 


84  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"SWING   LOW,  SWEET  CHARIOT." 


J 


Myrtle  Reed. 


[This  selection  should  be  recited  by  one  person,  and  the  singing,  with  mandolin  and  guita 
accompaniment,  should  be  done  by  several  persons  behind  the  scenes.] 

DOWN  in  the  negro  quarters  on  a  Georgia  plantation  stood  ; 
quaint  little  log  cabin  overlooking  cotton  fields.  Old  Joe': 
days  of  active  usefulness  were  over.  He  had  served  long  an< 
faithfully  in  those  same  cotton  fields,  then  as  a  house  servant 
and  later  as  a  coachman.  Now,  on  account  of  age  and  the  "mis- 
ery" in  his  back,  he  spent  his  days  telling  stories  to  the  children. 

His  wife,  Sally,  was  head  cook  at  the  mansion,  which  stood 
in  another  part  of  the  plantation. 

"The  Pines"  was  a  most  hospitable  house  and  usually  thronged 
with  guests,  for  its  young  mistress  had  an  indulgent  husband  and 
money  sufficient  to  gratify  every  possible  whim.  Mrs.  Lang  ley 
she  was  now,  but  to  old  joe  she  would  be  "Miss  Eunice"  always. 
He  had  carried  her  when  she  was  a  baby,  watched  over  her  when 
she  was  ill,  and  once  when  a  pair  of  maddened  horses  dashed 
down  the  drive,  he  had  snatched  the  unconscious  child  from  al 
most  under  the  wild  feet,  and  saved  her  life,  they  said ;  but  the 
brave  fellow  had  received  internal  injuries  and  had  not  been  c;h!c 
to  do  much  since. 

"Yes,"  he  said  one  afternoon  to  an  appreciative  audience  of 
pickaninnies,  "dat  ar  day  war  a  great  time  fo'  ol'  Joe.  I  war  jes 
a  gwine  to  de  house  w'en  I  see  dese  yer  hosses  comin  ker-blip! 
right  whar  Miss  Eunice  war  a  playin'  wid  her  doll-buggy.  Dere 
wasn't  no  time  to  call  her,  so  I  jes'  grab  her  and  run,  an'  my 
foot  ketch  in  de  doll-buggy  an'  I  trow  Miss  Eunice  ober  my  hakl 
in  some  soft  grass  an'  den  de  hosses  tram  on  me  an'  I  kinder  lost 
my  'membuna?.  Pretty  soon  I  fin'  mysel'  in  de  house  an  d« 
doctor  an'  ol'  Missis,  she  jes'  stoop  down  an'  kiss  ol'  Joe.  Tink 
ob  dat ! 

"Den  Miss  Eunice  come  in,  an'  ol'  Missis  say,  'Come  here, 
dear,  and  see  Uncle  Joe.    He  done  sabe  yo'  life.'    An'  den  I  lose 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  39.  35 

my  'membunce  again.  One  day  Mas'r  walk  in  an'  he  say,  'Joe, 
here's  yo'  papers,  yo's  free  now,  jus'  ez  free  ez  I  is.'  I  say, 
'Mas'r,  I  don't  want  to  go  away  from  you  an'  Missis  and  Miss 
Eunice.  I  want  to  stay  here  on  de  ol'  plantation,  along  o'  my  ol' 
woman.'  And  den  he  wipe  his  eyes  an'  say,  'I'll  gib  Sally  papers, 
1  too,'  an'  Sally  say,  'No,  Mas'r,  me  an'  Joe  don'  want  to  be  free ; 
we  wants  to  stay  here  where  we's  happiest,' ^an'  Mas'r  say  he  keep 
dose  yer  papers  for  us  till  we  done  want  'em.  Dose  was  mighty 
fine  times  for  ol'  Joe!" 

"Now    play    something,     uncle,"     the     children    cried,     and 
brought  the  fiddle  that  always  hung  in  one  corner  of  the  cabin. 
:  His  eyes  brightened,  but  he  gently  put  the  eager  child  away,  say- 
ing, "No,  honey,  not  dis  time.     I  got  de  misery  in  my  back  wuss 
en  eber.    Go  'way,  chillens,  ol'  Joe's  so  tired !" 

They  obediently  trooped  out  of  the  cabin,  and  the  old  man's 
head  dropped  on  his  breast.  The  gaunt  gray  figure  twitched  with 
pain,  and  he  did  not  move  until  Sally  came  in  to  get  his  supper. 

"Well,  honey,"  she  said,  cheerily,  "how's  yo'  back  to-day?" 

"  'Pears  like  de  pain  gets  wuss,  Sally,"  he  replied. 

"Neber  yo'  min',  yo'll  get  better  byme  by." 
r      Sally  moved  quickly  about  the  cabin  and  soon  had  the  evening 
meal  on  the  table. 

"Come,  Joe,  move  up  yo'  cheer.  Dis  yere  hoe  cake  done  to 
de  t'un !" 

"  'Pears  like  I  couldn't  eat  no  supper." 

"Po'  ol'  man,"  said  Sally,  sympathetically,  and  she  ate  in 
silence,  watching  the  pain-drawn  face  with  ever-increasing 
anxiety. 

As  twilight  fell,  the  sufferer  sought  his  couch,  where  he 
moaned  and  tossed  restlessly,  and  the  pitying  Sally,  stretched 
wearily  on  a  faded  rug  near  the  door,  was  soon  fast  asleep. 


Up  at  the  Pines  all  was  light  and  laughter  and  music,  for  a 
crowd  of  young  folks  were  gathered  'neath  its  hospitable  roof  and 
guitars  and  mandolins  made  the  whole  house  ring  with  melody. 


36  WERNER'S  READINGS 

A  pretty  girl  with  a  mandolin  said,  "Do  you  know,  I  feel  like 
having  a  lark." 

"Try  a  swallow,"  suggested  a  young  man.  "There's  lots  of 
lemonade  left  in  the  pitcher." 

"No,  I  want  a  regular  lark !" 

"How  would  a  serenade  do?" 

"Capital!  Just  the  thing!  We'll  take  our  mandolins  and  gui- 
tars into  the  moonlight  and  make  things  pleasant  generally." 

"Mrs.  Langley,"  said  a  maid  with  a  practical  turn  of  mind, 
"who  is  there  to  serenade?  The  girls  think  it  would  be  fun,  but 
we  don't  know  where  to  find  a  victim  in  this  isolated  Eden." 

Mrs.  Langley  rose  quickly,  and  going  to  the  little  party,  told 
them  of  old  Joe. 

"Go  down  to  the  old  man's  cabin  and  sing  the  quaint  negro 
melodies  he  loves  so  well — that  he  used  to  sing  to  me  when  I  was 
a  little  child.  And  take  these  roses  with  you ;  he  used  to  love 
them  so ;  you  can  throw  them  in  at  the  open  window."  "How  do 
we  get  there?"  .  "Follow  the  brook;  it  flows  right  under  his  win- 
dow, and  you  can  not  miss  the  place.  I'd  go  with  you,  only  I 
can't  sing,  and  wouldn't  be  of  any  use."  She  smiled  brightly  at 
them  as  they  went  down  among  the  shadows,  then  to  the  tiny 
brook  that  seemed  like  a  musical  stream  of  silver  in  the  moon- 
light. 

The  party  was  strangely  silent  for  one  bound  for  a  "lark," 
and  when  they  came  to  Uncle  Joe's  tiny  cabin  in  an  unseen  nook 
of  the  plantation,  they  grouped  themselves  under  the  window  in 
silence. 

"Now,  then,"  whispered  one  of  them. 

The  mandolins  and  guitars  played  the  opening  strains  of  the 
sweet  old  melody,  then  their  fresh  young  voices  rose  high  and 
clear : 


^M=F=i&iB=kb£^g^B 


tr^-tT— T — t-T — Z—+3- 


• 


Swing  low,  sweet  char  -  i  -  ot,      Com-ing  for  to   car  -  ry  me  home. 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  JQ. 


37 


The  old  gray  head  turned  feebly  on  its  hard  pillow,  and  Sally 
stirred  restlessly. 


=3&¥=F 


fefc: 


fe — fcr 


=1: 


Swing  low, sweet  char- i  -  ot,      Com-ing  for   to   car-ry  me  borne. 

Above  the  song  of  the  brook,  that  seemed  like  a  tender  accom- 
paniment to  the  tinkle  of  the  mandolins,  the  music  rose,  and  old 
Joe  woke  from  his  dream  of  pain. 

Oh,  light  of  the  angels !  Oh,  rapture  of  the  song !  The  famil- 
iar words  brought  back  so  much  to  the  old  man's  listening  soul ! 


Swing  low,  sweet  char  -  i  -  ot,      Com-ing  for   to   car-ry  me  home. 

The  fragrant  shower  fell  around  him.  He  grasped  a  great 
white  rose  that  was  within  reach  of  his  hand,  and  pressed  it  to 
his  parched  lips. 


m% 


*=tc 


^ 


:» 


f\ — N — 


-N-^— rf 


mm 


Swing  low,  sweet  char  -  i  -  ot,      Com-ing  for  to   car  -  ry  me  home. 

Out  of  the  clouds  was  the  chariot  coming  for  him?  Yes — 
wrapt  in  celestial  glory. 

The  tired  head  fell  back  upon  its  pillow  with  a  sigh  of  infinite 
content;  the  chariot  came,  and  Uncle  Joe  forgot  the  "misery" 
and  the  roses  alike,  in  passing  from  supreme  shadow  to  supreme 
dawn. 


WHY  HE  DIDN'T  WASH. 


Maggie.     Why  don't  yer  wash  yer  face,  yer  lobster  ? 

JimmiS.  Wot!  an'  destroy  de  last  lingerin'  sweetness  uv 
ae  exquisite  aroma  uv  dat  superlative  kiss  yer  give  me  dis  fore- 
noon? 

Maggie.  Say,  Chimmie,  you're  a  jollier  all  right;  but  no 
woman  kin  help  lovin'  youse. 


38  WERNER'S  READINGS 

BEN    THOMAS'S   TRIAL. 


Harry  S.  Edwards. 


[Cutting,  by  Kate  Weaver,  from  "  De  Valley  an'  de  Shadder,"  by  Harry  S  Edwards,  pub- 
lished by  the  Century  Co.,  New  York,  and  used  by  special  permission  of  the  author.] 

NUMBER  of  log  huts  surrounded  by  black  gum  trees  that 
extend  down  to  a  dismal  swamp.  This  is  Black  Ankle,  the 
scene  of  my  story.  On  the  porch  of  one  of  the  huts,  stupid  with 
drink,  lay  Ben  Thomas,  the  host.  At  the  far  end  of  the  porch  his 
young  mulatto  wife  was  tossing  coins  amidst  groups  of  men,  who 
applauded  when  she  won  and  were  silent  when  she  lost.  Sud- 
denly the  game  ended,  the  woman  empty-handed. 

The  sleeper  waked  and  gazed  about  him.  The  last  throw  of 
the  coin  attracted  his  attention ;  he  staggered  forward. 

"Mandy,"  he  said,  gently,  "did  you  tek  my  money?" 

"Yes,  I  did." 

"Whar  hit,  Mandy?" 

"Whar  you  reck'n?" 

"Whar  hit,  Mandy?" 

"Los'." 

"Who  got  dat  money,  Mandy?" 

The  gambler  contemptuously  threw  three  silver  quarters  into 
her  lap. 

"Heah,  Mandy,  I'll  len'  yer  'miff  ter  pay  'im.  Dern  er  man 
w'at'll  'buse  es  wife  fo'  folks,  an'  en  'er  own  house."  All  eyes 
were  upon  the  husband.  He  took  the  coins,  placing  them  in  his 
pocket. 

"No  man  kin  len'  money  ter  my  wife,  an'  hit  ain'  len'in'  w'en 
money  w'at's  stole  comes  back." 

"Who  stole  it?"    A  savage  look  gleamed  in  the  gambler's  eye. 

"Fus  she  stole  hit,  an'  den  you  stole  hit;  fur  ter  cheat  er 
'ooman,  es  des  same  es  stealin'." 

Quick  as  the  spring  of  a  panther,  the  gambler  threw  himself 
upon  the  man  who  had  accused  him.  There  was  a  brief  struggle ; 
the  gambler  clasped  one  hand  over  his  breast  and  staggered.     A 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  jg.  39 

nife  dropped  from  his  hand  as  he  suddenly  extended  his  arn\ 
nd  with  a  deep  sigh  he  sank  lifeless. 

Ben  stood  with  folded  arms  gazing  upon  him,  but  the  womav 
glided  from  the  porch  and  snatched  the  bloody  knife  from  the 
ground.  For  an  instant  she  crouched,  her  face  upturned  to  her 
msband.  The  knife  vanished  in  the  folds  of  her  dress,  and  she 
»ointed  straight  into  the  black  depths  of  the  swamp.  "Run,  Ben !" 
he  whispered.  Ben  gazed  about  him  defiantly,  then  turned  and 
trode  away  into  the  shadow. 

The  woman  still  crouched  by  the  corpse,  but  her  eyes  were, 
ixed  upon  the  shadow  that  had  closed  over  her  husband.  Horror 
.nd  fear  seemed  to  have  frozen  her.  But  as  they  bore  the  body 
!>ff,  a  man  approached  her  and  asked  to  see  the  knife.  She  turned 
tier  face  to  his  for  an  instant,  then  bounded  by  him  and  was  swal- 
owed  up  by  the  swamp.  Forward  she  went  through  brake  and 
bramble.  Suddenly  the  silent  stretch  of  a  great  lagoon  was  before 
ler.  She  lifted  her  arm  and  frantically  hurled  the  knife  far  out 
nto  the  night.  She  held  her  breath.  At  last — a  far,  faint  splash 
:ame  to  her  ears. 

"Ben,"  she  whispered;  "Ben!"  there  was  no  answer.  "Ben!" 
This  time  it  was  a  scream.  A  thousand  echoes  darted  here  and 
here  in  the  sounding  swamp,  but  no  reply  came  from  her  husband. 

How  she  reached  home  she  knew  not,  but  presently  she  fell 
orostrate  upon  the  floor  of  the  cabin.  Crouching  there  in  the 
shadow  was  Charlotte,  her  husband's  mother,  crooning  to  his  babe. 
The  next  day  Ben  was  arrested. 

Then  weeks  passed.  Mandy  sat  by  the  hour  gazing  down  into 
he  shadowy  depths  of  the  swamp. 

One  Jay,  "Unc'  Siah,"  as  he  was  called,  leaned  over  the  picket. 
His  aged  face  beamed  down  kindly  upon  Mandy  and  old  Char- 
otte. 

"Mornin',  Aunt  Charlotte ;  how  you  do  des  mornin'  ?" 

"I'm  tolerable." 

"How  Mandy?" 

"She's  tolerable.     You  seen  Ben?" 

"Yes'm;  seen  him  yestid'y." 


40  WERNERS  READINGS 

"Wat 'e  say?" 

."Well,  he  ain'  say  much.  Hit's  mighty  nigh  unto  fo'  weeks 
sence  he  uz  put  en  jail,  an'  dey  es  gointer  have  'es  trial  next 
Chuesday.    You  bin  deir,  Mandy?" 

Mandy  turned  her  hunted  eyes  upon  him. 

"Yes,  an'  he  druv  me  'way." 

"Dem  lyyers  'low  dat  deir's  mighty  littl'  chance  fur  'im  less'n 
dat  knife  er  Bill's  'd  been  picked  up  by  somebody  w'at  uz  leanin' 
ter  our  side  er  de  case,  'cause  Bill's  name  uz  on  it,  an'  'u'd  show 
fur  hitself.  Plenny  of  'em  seed  Mandy  snatch  hit  frum  de  groun', 
an'  sum  ses  es  how  et  uz  Ben's  an'  she  uz  erfraid  ter  show  hit,  an' 
some  ses  es  how  hit  uz  Bill's  an'  she  uz  er  hidin'  hit  'cause  she  liked 
Bill  more'n  Ben ;  an'  so  hit  goes.  Dem  lyyers  'lows  es  how  Mandy 
bein'  the  prisoner's  wife,'  can't  sw'ar  in  de  case.  But  ef  de  knife 
uz  deir,  ses  dey,  hit  'u'd  tork  fur  hitse'f  'cause  deir  ain'  no  'sputin' 
de  name.     You  couldn't  fin'  hit,  you  reck'n,  Sis  Mandy?" 

The  woman  shuddered.  "No,  I  bin  deir  en  de  day,  but  de 
place  es  changed  fum  en  de  night ;  an'  et  night — I  can't  go  deir, 
Unc'  'Siah !" 

"Ben  ses,  ses  he,  'Ef  Marse  Bob  uz  heah  hit  'u'd  be  all  right.' 
But  deir  ain'  no  chance  now,  fur  'e  live  'way  off  yonder  sebenty 
odd  mile  an'  no  railroad  halfway.  An'  heah  hit  is  er  Thursday 
'bout  sundown." 

In  the  mind  of  the  woman  a  thought  was  dawning.  The  old 
man  drew  out  a  worn  Bible. 

"Sis  Mandy,  let  de  Lord  speak,  fur  deir's  trouble  in  sto'  fur 
you  an'  yourn.  T)e  Lord  es  my  sheppud,  I  shall  not  want.'  Bless 
de  Lord  fur  dat !  'He  make  me  ter  lay  down  in  green  pastures,  'e 
leads  me  besides  de  still  waters.  He  resto'ith  my  soul,  he  leads  me 
up  de  paf  er  de  righteous  fur  es  nam'  sake.'  Des  heah  dat!  By 
de  road,  or  ercross  de  corn-rows,  or  troo  de  swamp  hitse'f, — he's 
gointer  lead  de  way;  an'  hit's  all  de  same  ef  hit's  day  or  night; 
hit's  all  one  wid  de  Lord.  'Yea,  though  I  walk  troo  de  valley  er 
de  shadder  er  death,  I'll  fear  no  evil, — fur  Thou  art  wid  me,  Thy 
rod  an'  Thy  staff  dey  comforts  me,'  " 

The  young  woman  stood  up. 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  39.  4i 

''Tek  de  baby,.  Mammy ;  I'm  er-goin'  troo  de  valley  an'  de 
ladder  an'  by  de  waters  an'  'cross  de  pastures  twell  He  show  me 
iarse  Bob !  I  bin  bline,  Mammy,  but  He  done  op'n  my  eyes  an' 
see  de  way.  Good-bye,  Mammy!  Good-bye,  Unc'  'Siah!  'En 
;  valley  an'  de  shadder.'  " 

On  went  the  young  woman,  on  the  great  road,  through  the  vil- 
^e,  on  past  the  jail,  never  stopping.  She  moved  as  one  in  a 
ance ;  all  night  she  walked,  and  the  strange  light  shone  from 
:r  eyes. 

1   "  'En  de  valley  an'  de  shadder,'  "  she  whispered.     "Leanin'  on 
fis  rod  an'  His  staff." 

The  history  of  one  day  was  the  story  of  the  next.  She  started 
1  Thursday;  on  Monday  morning  she  passed  through  the  great 
tiite  columns  of  a  princely  home,  and  told  her  story.  At  ten 
:lock  the  next  morning  the  trial  of  Ben  Thomas  for  murder  was 

begin  at  Jeffersonville,  seventy  odd  miles  away. 

The  evening  of  the  same  day  found  Mandy  back  in  the  city, 
id  with  her  was  a  gray-haired  man — Marse  Bob.  A  buggy  was 
i  bear  him  to  Jeffersonville  in  the  early  morning,  but  for  her  there 
as  work  yet  to  be  done. 

"Wen  you  pass  Black  Ankle,  I'll  be  deir,"_she  told  him.  Be- 
re  he  could  stop  her  she  had  gone. 

She  passed  down  into  the  black  swamp.  "  'En  de  valley  an' 
;  shadder,'  "  she  whispered,  "  'an  er-fearin'  nuth'n.' ''"  As  she 
tered  there,  that  other  night  came  back,  and  its  horrors  rose 
out  her.  The  lagoon,  with  its  wide,  still  stretch  of  water,  lay  at 
r  feet. 

She  raised  her  ha  cl  and  threw  the  knife  with  all  her  might — 
e,  for  the  ha.ic.le  seemed  '  i  her  grasp  as  hard  and  bloody  as  on 
:at  fatal  night.  Yonder  it  will  fall,  she  thought;  and  lo !  so  it 
emed  to  fall.  "  'En  de  valley  an'  de  shadder,  Thy  rod  an'  Thy 
iff,'  an'  'er-fearin'  nuth'n,'  "  and  so,  half  moaning,  she  let  herself 
mm  into  the  silent  water.  The  chilly  flood  rose  to  her  armpits, 
t  she  moved  forward  straight  into  the  gloom.  As  she  moved 
e  felt  with  her  bruised  and  torn  feet  in  the  soft  ooze  and  in  the 


42  WERNER'S  READINGS 

slime;  for  she  fancied  she  could  tread  every  foot  of  the  dark 
depths  until  the  knife  was  found. 

Just  as  the  spot  was  reached  to  which  she  had  calculated  that 
her  strength  could  have  hurled  the  bloody  weapon,  the  ground 
passed  from  under  her  feet.  Frantically  she  clutched  at  a  cypress 
tree  to  draw  back,  when  instantly  a  sharp,  swift  pain  ran  along  her 
arm.  She  had  touched  a  snake,  and  he  had  struck  his  fangs  into 
her  clenched  hands.  She  must  not  lose  hold;  she  did  not.  Butl 
her  lips  opened  and  sent  up  one  wild,  frenzied  cry  from  that  dread- 
ful place,  "O  my  God !" 

But  what  was  that  ?  There  was  no  serpent  in  her  grasp ;  only 
the  long,  keen  blade  of  a  knife,  thrust  into  the  tender  cypress.  The 
weapon  she  had  hurled  out  into  the  night  had  stuck  where  it  had 
struck.  She  drew  it  from  its  rest  and  rushed  from  the  swamp. 
Mile  after  mile  passed,  hour  after  hour,  and  still  Marse  Bob  came 
not.  Day  broke  and  the  sun  rose.  The  fever  came  upon  her ;  it 
slew  her  strength  and  hurled  her  by  the  wayside.  As  thus  she  lay, 
an  old  man  riding  a  flying  gray  horse  burst  into  sight ;  she  thrust 
upward  the  knife ;  he  caught  it  and  passed  on.  A  smile  came  over 
her  wan  face.  "  'En  de  valley  an'  de  shadder,'  "  she  feebly  mur- 
mured as  she  dragged  herself  home. 

Slowly  the  court  assembled.  The  prisoner  took  his  stand  to 
make  his  statement.  He  declared  emphatically  that  the  deceased, 
knife  in  hand,  had  assaulted  him,  and  that  he  had  killed  him  in 
self-defence ;  that  the  knife  that  fell  from  the  relaxing  hand  was 
the  dead  man's.  He  told  the  story  simply,  and  as  he  began  it  a 
tall  gentleman  with  iron-gray  hair  entered  the  room.  As  the  pris 
oner  resumed  his  seat,  the  newcomer  entered  within  the  rail.  He 
shook  hands  gravely  with  several  of  the  older  lawyers  and  took 
the  hand  that  the  court  extended  over  the  desk.  Then  he  turned, 
and,  to  the  astonishment  of  everyone,  shook  hands  with  the  pris- 
oner. 

The  solicitor  arose,  and  with  a  few  cold  words  swept  away  the 
cobwebs  of  the  case.  The  man  had  stabbed  another  wantonly.  If 
the  knife  was  the  property  of  the  deceased,  why  was  it  not  pro- 
duced in  court?     The  defendant's  wife  had  picked  it  up!     He 


1 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  jg.  43 

"passed  the  case  to  the  jury,  and  the  judge  prepared  to  deliver  his 
charge,  when  the  old  gentleman  rose  to  his  feet. 

"If  Your  Honor  please,  the  prisoner  is  entitled  to  the  closing; 
[and,  in  the  absence  of  other  counsel,  I  beg  that  you  mark  my  name 
for  the  defence." 

"Mr.  Clerk,"  said  the  Court,  "Mark  General  Robert  Thomas 
for  the  defence." 

The  silence  was  absolute.  The  jurymen  moved  in  their  seats. 
Something  new  was  coming.  The  old  gentleman  laid  his  hat  and 
stick  upon  the  table,  and,  drawing  himself  up  to  his  great  height, 
fixed  his  brigh ':  eye  upon  first  one  and  then  another  of  the  jury, 
looking  down  into  their  very  hearts.  Only  this  old  man  stood  be- 
tween the  negro  and  the  grave.     Suddenly  he  said: 

"The  knife  that  was  i'ound  by  the  dead  man's  side  was  his  own. 
He  had  drawn  it  before  he  was  stabbed.  Ben  Thomas  is  a  brave 
man,  a  strong  man;  he  would  ::ot  have  used  a  weapon  upon  an 
unarmed  man. 

"I  offer  no  evidence,  :ot  even  this  knife,  with  the  name  of  the 
deceased  upon  it,  though  it  comes  to  me  direct  from  the  hand  of 
the  woman  who,  it  has  been  proved,  snatched  the  weapon  when 
he  fell  to  the  ground.  But,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  not  upon  theory, 
not  upon  facts,  do  I  base  the  assertion  that  the  deceased  had  a 
knife  in  his  hand  when  he  made  the  assault— I  speak  from  a 
knowledge  of  men.  Ben  Thomas  would  never  have  stabbed  an 
unarmed  man.  Why  do  I  say  this?  Because  I  know  he  is  as 
brave  a  man  as  ever  faced  death;  a  faithful  i..an;  such  men  do 
not  use  weapons  upon  unarmed  assailant?. 

"Why  do  I  say  he  is  brave?  Every  man  on  this  jury  shoul- 
dered his  musket  during  the  war.  Most  of  you  followed  Pickett. 
Some  perhaps  were  at  Gettysburg.  I  was  there,  too !  I,  and  the 
only  brother  God  ever  gave  me,  a  part  of  him  is  there  yet. 

"I  well  remember  that  fight.  The  enemy  stood  brave  and  de- 
termined, and  met  our  charges  with  a  courage  that  could  not  be 
shaken.  At  last  came  Pickett's  charge.  When  that  magnificent 
command  went  in,  a  negro  man,  a  humble  African,  a  captain's 
body-servant,  stood  behind  it,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  wait- 


44  WERNER'S  READINGS 

ing.  You  know  the  result.  Out  of  that  vortex  of  flame  and  that 
storm  of  lead  a  handful  drifted  back.  From  one  to  another  this 
negro  ran,  then  turned,  and  followed  in  the  track  of  the  charge.  On, 
on,  he  went,  under  my  very  glass,  for  it  was  my  misfortune  to  stay 
behind;  on  through  the  smoke  and  the  flame;  gone  one  moment 
and  in  sight  the  next ;  on  up  to  the  flaming  cannon  themselves. 
Then  there  he  bent  and  lifted  a  form  from  the  ground.  Together 
they  fell  and  rose,  and  this  three  times,  until,  meeting  them  half- 
way, I  took  the  burden  from  the  hero.  That  burden  was  the  sense- 
less form  of  my  brother,  gashed  and  bleeding  and  mangled.  And 
the  man  who  bore  him  out,  who  came  to  me  with  him  in  his  arms 
as  a  mother  would  carry  a  sick  child,  himself  shot  with  a  fragment 
of  a  shell  until  his  great  heart  was  almost  dropping  from  his 
breast, — that  man,  O  my  friends,  sits  here  under  my  hand !  See,  if 
I  speak  not  the  truth !"  He  tore  open  the  prisoner's  shirt  and  lay 
bare  his  breast.  A  great,  ragged  seam  marked  it  from  left  to 
right.  "Look !  and  bless  the  sight,  for  that  scar  was  won  by  a 
slave  in  an  hour  that  tried  the  souls  of  freemen  and  put  to  its  high- 
est test  the  best  manhood  of  the  South.  No  man  who  wins  such 
wounds  can  thrust  a  knife  into  an  unarmed  assailant.  I  have 
come  seventy  miles  in  my  old  age  to  say  it." 

It  may  have  been  contrary  to  the  evidence,  but  the  jury,  with- 
out leaving  their  seats,  returned  a  verdict  of  "not  guilty." 


FRENCHMAN    ON    THE   ENGLISH   LANGUAGE. 


Edmund  Vance  Cooke. 


"I  VOULD  you  make  ze  little  speak  avec  plaisir, 

A      Boat  eet  ees  not  moach  long  zat  I  been  here 
Ant  I  am  timid  zat  I  speak  soam  wrong, 
Becos  I  know  zis  langvids  not  moach  long. 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  jg.  45 

"Zis  Englees  langvids  I  not  understand  me  moach. 
Eet  ees  not  logical,  eef  I  can  joage, 
For  eet  ees  not  long  since  ago  zat  I 
Did  not  receif  somesing  for  which  I  try; 
Ant  zen  a  frient  of  mine,  he  coam  ant  say, 
'Olt  man,  I  seenk  zat  you  are  in  ze  consomme.' 

"Boat  zen  anuzzer  frient  coam  ze  next  minute 
Ant  say,  'My  boy,  I  moach  regret  you  are  not  in  it.' 

"Ant  still  anuzzer  frient  he  coam  to  me. 

'Ze  sing  ees  not  moach  goot  at  all,'  say  he. 

'Eet  ees  all  right  zat  you  are  left.'    How  ees  zat  been 

Zat  I  am  right  ant  left  ant  out  ant  in? 

"Ant  so  I  seenk  perhaps  I  not  know  well 
Zis  Englees  langvids,  or  I  vould  you  tell 
Ze  little  speak  zat  I  s'ould  like  to  make, 
Boat  I  am  timid  zat  I  speak  meestake. 

"For  eet  ees  soach  a  fonie  kvngvids,  oui ! 
Not  long  ago,  one  evening,  coam  to  me 
One  ver'  good  frient,  as  eet  ees  getting  dark 
Ant  say,  'Coam,  let  us  go  upon  ze  lark.' 
I  say,  'Eh  bien,  I  go,'  for  I  not  like  to  tell 
Zat  I  not  understand  him  ver'  moach  well. 
A  lark?    Zat  ees  a  bird,  selon  Webstaire, 
Ze  gentilman  zat  write  ze  dictionaire ; 
Boat,  ah  !    I  fint  I  haf  not  understood. 
I  fint  zis  lark  ees  not  a  bird  moach  good. 

"Eet  ees  ver'  late  zat  I  am  get  to  bed 

Ant  zen  I  feel  so  strange  oap  in  ze  head. 

I  am  so  bad  I  not  can  sleep,  ant  so 

I  rise  moach  early  ant  I  go  below ; 

Ant  zere  I  fint  my  landladie  who  coam  ant  say 

'Monsieur,  you  get  oap  wiz  ze  lark  to-day!' 


46  WERNER'S  READINGS 

I  say  'Non,  non,  madame;  oh,  my  poor  head! 
Eet  ees  wiz  zat  bad  bird  I  went  to  bed ! 
I  not  get  oap  wiz  him.    You  are  moach  wrong; 
I  am  alreaty  wiz  zat  bird  too  long.' 

"She  laugh  so  moach  I  seenk  her  face  ees  break; 
I  not  know  why  onless  I  speak  meestake ; 
Ant  so,  I  will  not  make  ze  speak  to-night, 
For  I  am  timid  zat  I  not  speak  right." 


1 


AN   ABANDONED   ELOPEMENT. 


Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 


"  'HP AIN'T  nowhere  near  mail-time,  father!     You  ain't  goi 
■1        ter  the  post-office  now,  be  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Saunders  watched  her  father  pass  down  the  path  to  tl 
front  gate. 

"Father!    Father!" 

Mr.  Baker  went  on.  He  heard  his  daughter  calling  him,  b 
did  not  choose  to  answer.  Obadiah  Baker  considered  himself 
deeply  injured  man. 

It  was  the  first  day  of  October,  and  on  the  morning  of  eve 
first  of  October  for  the  last  twenty-eight  years  Obadiah  had  la 
aside  his  summer  underwear  and  had  donned  his  winter  "flannel 
This  particular  day  he  had  not  made  the  change.  September  h; 
been  as  warm  as  summer.  So  when  that  morning  he  had  loud 
demanded,  "Where's  them  thick  flannels  o'  mine,  Sereny?" 
daughter  answered,  ''Now,  father,  you  ain't  goin'  ter  put  on  the 
ridic'lous  heavy  things  this  warm  weather.  You  keep  on  yo 
summer  ones  for  a  spell." 

Obadiah  protested  vainly,  but  Serena  was  firm.  The  fact  tb 
his  wife  had  never,  and  his  married  daughter,  with  whom  he  h 
lived  since  her  mother's  death,  seldom,  attempted  to  cross  hi 
made  it  all  the  harder. 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  jg.  47 

He  passed  Elmer  Burns  in  his  front  yard,  who  called  out, 
'Good  weather  fer  this  season  o'  the  year,  ain't  it?" 

Obadiah  hurried  along.    Mr.  Burns  had  chosen  a  poor  topic. 

Down  in  Baxter's  Lane,  Mrs.  Deborah  Wixon  was  sitting 
)n  the  front  porch  of  her  son's  house,  knitting.  Obadiah  noted 
hat  she  wore  a  shawl. 

"Good-mornin',  Obadiah,"  said  Mrs.  Wixon.  "Gittin'  sort  o' 
rhilly,  ain't  it?" 

The  kindred  spirit  was  found.  Mr.  Baker  turned  in  at  the 
>ate.  He  had  always  liked  Mrs.  Wixon.  In  fact,  away  back  in 
:he  days  when  he  was  single,  the  current  gossip  was  that  she 
would  become  Mrs.  Baker. 

"Mornin',  Debby,"  said  Obadiah.  "  'Tis  chilly.  It'll  be  a 
nercy  if  we  don't  git  our  death  o'  cold<  dressed  the  way  some  o' 
||s  be.     How's  things  goin'  with  you?" 

"Oh,  I  dunno,  Obadiah.  I'm  kind  o'  out  o'  sorts.  Some- 
times I  wish  I  could  afford  ter  have  a  house  o'  my  own." 

"I  was  thinkin'  that  same  thing  as  I  came  'long.  There's 
nothing  like  independence.  What  is  it  that's  troublin'  you,  Debby  ? 
Don't  Dan'l  an'  his  wife  treat  you  well •?" 

"Oh,  yes,  they  treat  me  well  'nough,  but  if  you  was  runnin'  yer 
own  house  you  could  have  what  you  wanted  ter  eat " 

"An'  ter  wear." 

"Yes,  an'  ter  wear.  Fer  the  last  eighteen  year  er  more  I've 
had  a  soft-biled  egg  ev'ry  mornin'  fer  breakfast.  Well,  this  morn- 
Jin'  they  didn't  happen  ter  have  no  eggs  in  the  house,  an'  Dan'l, 
'stead  er  sendin'  up  ter  Caleb's  ter  git  some,  told  Elviry  that  he 
'guessed  I'd  eat  a  piece  o'  steak  same  as  they  had.  Now,  I  didn't 
want  steak ;  I  wanted  soft-biled  egg." 

Obadiah  nodded  in  sympathy.    "I  know  how  'tis,"  he  caid. 

"Obadiah,  I  wonder  that  you  don't  rent  a  house  an'  run  it 
yerself." 

"What  would  be  the  sense  o'  it  ?  Have  ter  hire  a  housekeeper, 
an'  good  housekeepers  is  hard  ter  git." 

Mr.  Baker  broke  off  suddenly,  and  sat  musing.     Mrs.  Wixon 


48  WERNER'S  READINGS 

rambled  on  about  her  tribulations.  Suddenly  Obadiah  slapped  his 
knee. 

"Debby,  let's  you  an'  me  git  married." 

"Why,  how  you  talk,  Obadiah  Baker  !" 

"No,  I  don't  talk,  nuther.  I  mean  it.  Here's  you,  livin'  on 
yer  son  an'  wishin'  fer  a  home  o'  yer  own.  Here's  me,  livin'  on 
my  darter  an'  wishin'  the  same  thing.  Let's  git  hitched  an'  set  up 
housekeepin'." 

"Well,  I  never !  We'd  be  a  healthy  young  bridal  couple, 
wouldn't  we?1    What  would  folks  say?" 

"What  do  we  care  what  they  say?  See  here,  Debby,  this  ain't 
no  sentimental  front-gate  spoonin'.  Here's  independence  starin' 
us  right  in  the  face." 

Airs.  Wixon  was  silent  for  a  full  three  minutes.  Obadiah  re- 
peated anxiously,  "Let's,  Debby ;  come  on,  now,  let's !"  at  thirty- 
second  intervals. 

"Taint  no  use,  Obadiah ;  if  I  was  ter  tell  Dan'l  that  I  was  goin' 
ter  git  married,  he'd  set  his  ioot  right  down,  an'  that  would  end  it. 
An'  if  I  know  Sereny,  she'd  do  the  same  thing." 

"Then  let's  do  it  without  askin'  'em." 

"How  could  we?" 

"We'll  elope,  that's  what  we'll  do!" 

"Elope !" 

"Now,  hold  on;  I'll  come  'round  at  twelve  o'clock  ter-night 
with  Benjamin's  hoss  an'  buggy.  You  be  ready,  an'  we'll  drive 
over  to  Ostable.  We'll  git  there  by  mornin',  an'  we'll  have  the 
minister  over  there  marry  us.  Then  we'll  come  home  ag'in,  an' 
tell  the  folks." 

It  would  take  too  long  to  tell  all  the  widow's  reasons  against 
the  proposed  elopement  and  all  Obadiah's  arguments  in  favor  of 
it.     Finally  Mrs.  W7ixon  consented. 

The  accepted  suitor  went  home  in  a  sort  of  trance.  For  the 
first  time  in  years  unnumbered  he  forgot  to  call  at  the  office  for  the 
mail.  In  consequence  no  less  than  seven  aged  veterans  called  at 
the  house  to  see  if  he  was  ill.  He  ate  almost  no  dinner,  and  even 
less  supper ;  his  daughter  was  convinced  that  he  was  comin'  down 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  39.  49 

with  the  grip,  and  this,  together  with  his  own  sense  of  guilt, 
brought  him  to  a  state  of  nervous  trembling  that  was  pitiable. 

It  was  nearly  twelve  before  he  dared  creep  downstairs  and  out 
of  the  back  door.  Luckily  the  barn  was  a  good  distance  from  the 
:  house,  and  his  daughter  and  her  husband  were  sound  sleepers.  He 
I  did  not  dare  attempt  getting  the  buggy  out  of  the  barn,  and  de- 
cided to  use  the  old  carryall  that  stood  under  the  open  shed. 

Old  Major,  the  horse,  looked  at  him  in  sleepy  wonder.  The 
harnessing  was  a  weird  and  wonderful  operation.  Obadiah  had 
not  harnessed  a  horse  for  years.  After  a  while,  however,  it  was 
accomplished,  although  whether  the  breeching  was  where  the 
bridle  should  have  been  was  more  than  either  horse  or  man  would 
have  dared  swear  to.  After  several  centuries,  as  the  prospective 
bridegroom  reckoned  time,  Obadiah  was  safely  out  of  the  yard 
and  on  his -way  to  the  home  of  the  expectant  fair  one. 

He  had  hoped  to  find  Mrs.  Wixon  waiting  by  her  porch ;  but 
she  was  not  there,  so  he  crept  on  around  the  corner  to  the  back 
door.     All  was  silent  there  also. 

Then  from  a  window  overhead  came  a  trembling  whisper: 
"Obadiah — oh,  my  land! — Obadiah,  is  that  you?" 

Mr.  Baker's  heart  leaped  up  and  stuck  in  his  throat. 

"Oh,  my  soul  an'  body!  Where  have  you  be'n?  I'm  that 
scart " 

"Why  don't  you  come  down?" 

"I  can't.  Dan'l's  locked  the  doors,  an'  took  the  key  ter  his 
room.     I  can't  git  down." 

"Ain't  ther  no  way?" 

"No-o,  only  one,  an'  I'd  never  dast  ter  try  that  in  this  world. 
There's  a  ladder  layin'  out  'longside  the  woodshed,  but — where 
are  you  goin'?"  , 

Obadiah  found  the  ladder,  andklragged  it  beneath  the  window. 
Fortunately  the  unsuspecting  Daniel  and  his  wife  slept  at  the  front 
of  the  house,  and  slept  soundly. 

At  first  the  widow  flatly  refused  to  descend,  but  Obadiah 
pleaded  in  agonized  whispers,  and  finally  she  was  prevailed  upon 
to  try.     Mr.  Baker  grasped  the  lower  end  of  the  ladder  with  a 


50  WERNER'S  READINGS 

grip  that  brought  the  perspiration  out  upon  his  forehead,  and  the 
lady,  with  suppressed  screams,  reached  the  ground  safe  and  more 
or  less  sound. 

As  Mr.  Baker  was  helping  her  into  the  carryall  he  noticed  that 
she  carried  a  small  handbag. 

"What  you  got  that  thing  fer?" 

"That's  my  reticule.  It's  got  a  clean  han'kerchief,  an'  a  needle 
an'  thread,  an'  one  thing  an'  another  in  it.  I  never  go  nowheres 
without  it." 

Major  trotted  off  briskly.  The  first  mile  of  their  journey  was 
accomplished  safely,  but  the/night  was  pitch-dark,  and  when  they 
turned  into  the  Ostable  road,  which  leads  through  thick,  soft  pine, 
it  was  hard  to  distinguish  even  the  horse's  ears.  Mrs.  Wixon 
insisted  that  every  curtain  of  the  carryall  should  be  closely  but- 
toned down. 

"Fresh  air  never  hurt  nobody,"  said  Obadiah.  "I  sleep  with 
my  winder  wide  open  winter  an'  summer." 

"You  do?  Well,  I  tell  you  right  now,  I  don't.  I  shut  ev'ry 
winder  tight.  I  don't  run  no  resk  from  drafts,  an'  I  sha'n't  let 
you  do  it." 

Mr.  Baker  grunted,  only  brightening  up  when  the  widow  be- 
gan to  talk. 

"We'll  keep  chickens,"  she  said,  "an'  then  I  can  have  a  soft- 
biled  egg  ev'ry  mornin'.  You'll  git  up  'bout  five  o'clock  an'  kindle 
the  fire,  an' — — " 

"Me  git  up  an'  kindle  it?" 

"You  don't  expect  I'm  goin'  ter,  do  you?" 

"No-o,  I  s'pose  not.  You  see,  I've  be'n  used  ter  turnin'  out 
'bout  seven,  an' " 

"Seven!  My  soul!  I  allers  have  my  breakfast  et  by  seven. 
Well,  you  git  up  at  five  an'  kindle  the  fire,  an'  then  you'll  go  out 
ter  the  hen-yard  an'  git  what  eggs  there  is.    Then " 

"Then  I'll  come  in  an'  call  you,  an'  you'll  come  down  an'  git 
breakfast.  What  breakfasts  we  will  have !  Egg  fer  you,  an'  ham 
an'  fried  pertaters  fer  me,  an'  pie " 

"Pie?     Fer  breakfast?" 


AND   RE  CI  T A  TIONS  NO.  jp.  51 

"Sartin.  Sereny  allers  has  a  piece  o'  pie  warmed  fer  me.  I 
wouldn't  give  two  cents  fer  breakfast  without  pie." 

"Well,  now,  Obadiah,  if  you  think  I'm  goin'  ter  git  up  an' 
warm  up  pie  ev'ry  mornin',  let  'lone  fryin'  pertaters  an' " 

"See  here,  Debby.  Seems  ter  me  if  I'm  willin'  to  turn  out  at 
that  unairthly  hour  an'  then  go  scratchin'  'round  the  hen-house 
ter  please  you,  you  might  be  willin'  ter  have  a  chunk  o'  pie  het 
up  fer  me." 

"Well,  I'll  try  an'  do  it.  It'll  seem  kind  o'  hard,  after  comin' 
down  ev'ry  mornin'  at  half-past  six,  an'  findin'  my  breakfast  all 
ready  fer  me.    What  air  you  stoppin'  fer?" 

1  "There  seems  ter  be  a  kind  o'  cross-roads  here.  Now,  which 
one  do  we  take?  I  ain't  drove  to  Ostable  fer  years  an'  years. 
Do  you  know  which  is  the  right  road,  Debby?" 

"Well,  seems  ter  me,  nigh  as  I  can  recollect,  that  we  took  the 
left-han'  road.     No,  I  ain't  sure  but  'twas  the  right-han'." 

"Well,  I'll  take  the  right-han'  road.     I  think  that's  the  way." 

If  the  main  road  had  been  dark,  the  branch  road  was  darker. 
Mrs.  Wixon  at  length  broke  the  dismal  silence. 

"Obadiah,  what  time  had  we  oughter  git  ter  Ostable?" 

;'  'Bout  five  o'clock.  *We'll  drive  'round  'till  'bout  seven,  an' 
then  we'll  go  an'  git  married.  I  used  ter  know  the  Methodist 
minister  there,  an' — - — " 

"Methodist  minister !  You  ain't  goin'  ter  a  Methodist  ter  be 
married  ?" 

"I  sartin  shouldn't  go  to  no  one  else.  I've  be'n  deacon  in  the 
Methodist  church  fer  over  thirty  year." 

"I  was  confirmed  inter  the  Baptist  faith  when  I  was  twelve, 
an'  if  anybody  but  a  Baptist  was  ter  marry  me  I  wouldn't  feel  as 
though  I  was  married  at  all." 

"Well,  I  sha'n't  git  married  by  no  Baptist." 

"Well,  no  Methodist  shall  marry  me." 

"Now,  looky  here,  Debby " 

"I  don't  care,  Obadiah.  You  ain't  done  nothing  but  contradict 
me  ever  since  we  started.    I'm  jest  'bout  ready  ter  cry." 

"Never  mind,  Debby,  don't  worry.     If  wust  comes  to  wust, 


52  WERNERS  READINGS 

I'll  take  a  Baptist ;  but  maybe  we  can  compromise  on  a  Presby- 
terian er  a  Swedenborgian  er  something.  What's  the  matter 
now?" 

Major  was  half  way  out  of  the  shafts,  with  the  larger  part  of 
the  harness  well  up  toward  his  ears.  Obadiah  groaningly  rum- 
aged  out,  lit  the  lantern,  and  proceeded  to  repair  damages.  In 
getting  back  into  the  carryall  he  tore  a  triangular  rent  in  the  back 
of  his  Sunday  coat.  He  had  left  his  watch  in  the  fob-pocket  of 
his  every-day  trousers,  so  they  had  no  means  of  knowing  the 
time. 

"That's  a  nice  mess,"  he  grumbled.  "Nice-lookin'  ragamuffin 
I'll  be  ter  git  married." 

"Maybe  I  can  mend  it  when  we  git  ter  Ostable." 

"You  said  you  had  a  needle  an'  thread  in  your  reticule. 
Couldn't  you  mend  it  now  if  I  held  the  lantern?" 

Mrs.  Wixon  announced  her  willingness  to  try,  and  the  mend- 
ing began.  Obadiah,  holding  the  lantern,  watched  the  operation, 
his  face  falling  at  every  stitch. 

"I'm  afraid  I  haven't  made  a  very  good  job  o'  it.  I  ain't  done 
any  men's  mending  fer  years  an'  years,  an'  it  don't  come  handy, 
somehow." 

Mr.  Baker  said  nothing,  but  in  his  mind  were  visions  of  the 
neat  patches  and  darns  of  his  daughter's  mending.  He  sighed 
heavily,  and  his  sigh  was  echoed  from  the  back  seat  of  the  carry- 
all. 

The  road  was  now  very  rough,  and  the  ruts  were  deep  and  full 
of  holes.     Mrs.  Wixon  grew  more  and  more  nervous. 

"Oh,  Obadiah,  what  a  jounce  that  Was !  Seems  ter  me  you're 
awful  reckless.  I  wish  Dan'l  was  drivin' ;  he  allers  drives  me  so 
careful." 

"I  wish  ter  the  Lord  he  was!  I  wish  him  er  somebody  else 
was  runnin'  this  whole  thing.  It's  nothing  but  nag,  nag,  fight, 
fight,  fight,  ever  since  we  started.  I'm  wore  out,  an'  my  rheumatiz 
is  come  back,  an'  my  feet's  wet,  an'  I  wish  I  was  dead.  If  we 
row  like  this  'fore  we're  married,  what'll  it  be  afterwards?    Talk 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  39.  53 

'bout  independence!  Git  dap  there!"  This  was  a  savage  roar  at 
Major,  who  had  stopped.  "What  be  you  standin'  still  fer,  you  old 
I  fool!" 

Mrs.  Wixon  leaned  forward.  "Obadiah,  tain't  the  hoss  that's 
the  old  fool ;  it's  you  an'  it's  me.  We  was  mad  'cause  some  little 
things  went  wrong,  an'  went  inter  this  elopin'  bizness  head  fust, 
never  stoppin'  ter  think  that  we  wa'n't  the  same  as  we  used  ter  be. 
We're  both  old,  an'  we're  both  sot  in  our  ways,  an'  we're  both 
used  ter  bein'  waited  on.  We  ain't  no  more  fit  ter  go  ter  house- 
keepin'  on  our  own  hook  than  a  couple  o'  children.  The  best 
thing  ter  do  is  ter  turn  'round  an'  go  home  ag'in."   yf^ 

"What  you  say  is  right  as  preachin',  Debby,  but  it's  too  late 
now, — an'  we  ought  ter  be  pretty  nigh  ter  Ostable.  If  we  should 
turn  back  now  we  wouldn't  git  home  till  long  after  daylight,  an' 
ev'rybody  would  be  up.  'Twould  make  talk  'nough  ter  last  till 
Jedgment-day.  We  got  ter  git  married  now,  that's  all  there  is 
ter  it.     Git-dap,  Major!" 

But  Major  refused  to  move,  and  his  driver  discovered  that 
the  road  apparently  ended  at  a  rail  fence  that  barred  further 
progress. 

"Debby,  there  seems  to  be  a  buildin'  ahead  o'  us  there.  I'm 
goiu'  ter  take  the  lantern,  an'  explore.  You  set  still  till  I  come 
back." 

But  this  Mrs.  Wixon  refused  to  do. 

So  he  assisted  her  to  alight,  and  the  pair  went  on  through  a 
grove  to  where  a  large  building  loomed  against  the  sky. 

"One  o'  the  Ostable  churches.  Wonder  which  'tis,"  said  Oba- 
diah. 

"There's  allers  a  sign  in  front  o'  a  church.  Let's  go  'round  an' 
see." 

When  they  came  out  by  the  front  platform,  Mrs.  Wixon  ex- 
claimed: "Well,  I  never!  I  wouldn't  b'lieve  I'd  remember  so 
clear.  It's  seven  year  sence  I  was  in  this  town,  but  this  church 
seems  jest  as  familiar  as  if  I  was  here  yisterday.  Why,  what's 
the  matter?" 


54  -  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"Debby,  this  night's  be'n  too  much  fer  me.  My  rheumatiz  has 
struck  inter  my  brain.  I'm  crazy  as  a  loon,  an'  can't  read  straight. 
Looky  here." 

Mrs.  Wixon  clambered  up  beside  her  agitated  companion,  and 
read  from  the  placard  these  words : 

"First  Baptist  Church,  Rev.  Jonathan  Langworthy,  Pastor." 

"Great  land  !  Why — why — Obadiah,  it's  our  church  at  Or- 
ham !  No  wonder  it  looked  familiar-like.  What  on  airth  does  it 
mean  ?" 

"We  took  the  wrong  road  at  the  crossin',  then  we  must  'a' 
switched  ag'in  pretty  quick,  then  we  must  'a'  turned  ag'in  when 
the  harness  broke,  an' 

"That  brought  us  inter  Caleb  Ellis's  wood  road  that  ends  right 
back  o'  the  church  here.  Obadiah  Baker,  we've  be'n  ridin'  'round 
in  circles  through  them  woods  all  night." 

The  bell  overhead  clanged  three  times. 

"Only  three  o'clock !"  gasped  Obadiah.  "Gosh !  I  thought 
we'd  be'n  ridin'  ten  hour.  You  an'  me  don't  want  ter  be  married, 
Debby.     What  we  want  is  guardeens  ter  take  care  o'  us." 

"We  can  git  home  now,  an'  nobody'll  know  a  thing  'bout  it, 
Obadiah.    This  is  the  han'  o"  Providence." 

At  six  o'clock  the  next  morning  Mrs.  Saunders  knocked  at 
her  father's  door. 

"Father,"  she  called,  "are  you  feelin'  better  this  mornin'?" 

Mr.  Baker  awoke  with  a  start. 

"Yes,  Sereny,  I'm  feelin'  lots  better.  Fact  is,  I'm  feelin'  like 
a  new  man." 

"Well,  bein'  as  you've  be'n  feelin'  bad,  I  dunno  but  you'd  bet- 
ter put  on  yer  thick  flannels.  I'll  leave  'em  outside  the  door. 
Thank  the  Lord  you  ain't  goin'  ter  be  sick." 

"Thank  Him  for  all  His  mercies !"  devoutly  said  Mr.  Baker, 
and  turned  over  and  slept.  There  was  a  smile  upon  his  face  that 
told  of  infinite  content. 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  39.  55 

MAN'S   TEARS. 


Clarence;  N.  Ousley. 


THERE'S    sumpen  in  a  woman's  tears  that  makes  you  wanter 
sorter 
Come  close  up  to  her  like,  an' — tho'  perhaps  you  hadn't  orter, 
An'  lest  you're  gray  an'  married,  better  not,  I'm  here  to  tell  you — 
Just  put  your  arm  around  her  waist  an'  tech  her  chin,  an' — well — 

you — 
You  dam  the  streams  uv  cryin'  up  with  little  chunks  uv  kisses, 
For  women  folks  they  live  on  love,  both  married  ones  an'  misses. 

There's  sumpen  in  the  children's  tears  that  makes  you  wanter  pet 

'em, 
An' — tho'  it  spiles  'em  ever'  time — just  shet  your  eyes  an'  let  'em 
Do  what  they  doggone  please,  for,  recollect,  their  little  troubles 
To  them  air  bigger'n  meetin'-houses ;  ours  ain't  more  nor  bubbles 
That  float  along  the  river  Life,  an'  we  air  only  ripples 
A-runnin'  to  the  shore  an'  dyin' — ripples  chasin'  ripples. 

There's  sumpen  in  man's  tears  that  chokes  up  all  the  forms  an' 

speeches 
Uv  sympathy.    Your  dumb  heart  aches  an'  vainly  it  beseeches 
A  sign  or  sound  to  voice  its  love.    Uncover !  stand  !  an'  listen  ! 
That  sob  unstrung  a  chord  that  can't  be  mended.       Teardrops 

glisten. 
The  light  uv  joy  is  flickerin'  out.    Don't  speak.     There's  no  use 

tryin' 
To  comfort  him.    He'd  ruther  be  alone  with  God  an'  cryin' 


NAN-TUCK-ET. 


There  was  once  a  man  from  Pawtucket, 
Who  kept  all  his  cash  in  a  bucket; 

But  his  daughter,  named  Nan, 

Ran  away  with  a  man, 
And  as  for  the  bucket, — Nan-tuck-et. 


66  WERNER'S  READINGS 

JOHNNY'S   ELOCUTIONARY   EFFORT. 


A  SMALL  orator  of  seven  made  his  debut  in  front  of  a  large 
audience  the  other  night.  His  loving  family,  who  had 
egged  him  on  to  this  sacrifice,  were  mostly  with  him  in  the 
dressing-room. 

"Now,  Johnny,"  said  the  mother,  "be  sure  you  make  a  nice 
bow." 

"You  bet  I  will,"  said  Johnny. 

"And  let  your  hands  hang  easily  by  your  side  like  this,"  and 
his  father  struck  an  attitude. 

"Of  course." 

"Are  you  sure  you  know  your  piece  ?"  asked  his  sister. 

"Yep,"  said  Johnny,  and  he  recited  the  first  two  lines : 

"  I  wish  I  had  a  little  dog, 
To  pat  him  on  the  head." 

"That's  right ;  he'll  do  splendidly,"  remarked  his  mother. 
•"You'll  go  on  in  a  minute  now  and  we  must  get  into  our  "seats. 
Don't  you  be  scared  a  bit,  Johnny." 

"Whoth  scared?"  asked  Johnny,  who  began  to  feel  a  sinking 
of  the  knees,  while  his  heart  seemed  to  rise  until  it  was  in  his 
mouth,  and  then  somebody  Avas  pushing  him  forward,  and  he 
saw  a  lot  of  faces,  not  one  of  which  he  had  ever  seen  before,  and 
it  was  lighter  than  any  electric  searchlight  he  had  ever  seen. 

"Speak  up,  now,"  said  the  manager  of  the  entertainment. 

"Make  your  bow  and  say  your  piece." 

Johnny  made  his  bow  and  the  audience  applauded,  but  he 
had  difficulty  in  finding  his  tongue,  which  seemed  lost  in  the  roof 
of  his  mouth.  His  hands  hung  down  as  his  father  suggested, 
making  him  look  like  a  little  wooden  man,  and  when  he  forgot 
and  stuffed  them  into  his  pockets  the  audience  again  applauded. 
The  manager  took  that  opportunity  for  a  stage  whisper. 

"Speak  up,  now,"  and  he  began  with  the  first  line.  Then 
Johnny  said  in  a  strange,  hoarse  voice: 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  39.  57 

"  I  wish  I  had  a  little  pat, 
To  dog  him  on  the  head." 

Roars  of  laughter,  and  frantic  demonstrations  on  the  part  of 
Johnny's  family.     He  began  again: 

"  I  wish  I  had  a  little  pat, 
To  head  him  on  the  dog." 

His  father  rose  in  his  seat,  but  this  only  added  to  Johnny's 
confusion. 

Again  the  boy  essayed : 

"  I  wish  I  had  a  little  dog, 
To  head  him  on  the  pat." 

Then  a  weary  family  took  Johnny  by  the  hand  and  led  him 
home. 


LAUGHTER. 


HERE'S  to  laughter,  the  sunshine  of  the  soul,  the  happiness 
of  the  heart,  the  leaven  of  youth,  the  privilege  of  purity, 
the  echo  of  innocence,  the  treasure  of  the  humble,  the  wealth  of 
the  poor,  the  head  of  the  cup  of  pleasure.  It  dispels  dejection, 
banishes  blues  and  mangles  melancholy,  for  it  is  the  foe  of  woe, 
the  destroyer  of  depression,  the  enemy  of  grief.  It  is  what  kings 
envy  the  peasant,  plutocrats  envy  the  poor,  the  guilty  envy  the 
innocent.  It  is  the  sheen  on  the  silver  of  smiles,  the  ripple  on 
the  water's  delight,  the  glint  of  the  gold  of  gladness.  Without 
it  humor  would  be  dumb,  wit  would  wither,  dimples  would  dis- 
appear, and  smiles  would  shrivel.  For  it  is  the  glow  of  a  clean 
conscience,  the  voice  of  a  pure  soul,  the  birth  cry  of  mirth,  the 
swan  song  of  sadness. 


58  )    WERNER'S  READINGS 

KISS    HER. 


T.  A.  Daly. 


[Copyright,  1906,  by  T.  A.  Daly.    By  permission,  from  "  Canzoni,"  published  by  Catholic 
Standard  and  Times  Publishing  Co.] 

SAY,   young  man!   if  you've  a   wife, 
Kiss  her. 
Every  morning  of  your  life, 

Kiss  her. 
Every  evening  when  the  sun 
Marks  your  day  of  labor  done, 
Get  you  homeward  on  the  run — 
Kiss  her. 


Even  though  you're  feeling  bad, 

Kiss  her. 
If  she's  out  of  sorts  and  sad, 

Kiss  her. 
Act  as  if  you  meant  it,  too ; 
Let  the  whole  true  heart  of  you 
Speak  its  ardor  when  you  do 

Kiss  her. 


If  you  think  it's  "soft,"  you're  wrong, 

Kiss  her ! 
Love  like  this  will  make  you  strong, 

Kiss  her. 
You're  her  husband  now,  but  let 
Her  possess  her  lover  yet. 
Every  blessed  chance  you  get, 

Kiss  her. 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  39.  59 

Every  good  wife  lets  her  man 

Kiss  her. 
Be  a  man,  then,  when  you  can ; 

Kiss  her. 
If  you'd  strike  with  telling  force 
At  the  Evil  of  Divorce, 
Just  adopt  this  simple  course : 

Kiss  her. 


t 


MR.  DOOLEY   ON    RISING   OF   THE   SUBJECT   RACES. 


F.  P.  Dunne. 


[Copyright,  1907,  by  H.  H.  McClure  &  Co.    Used  by  special  permission.] 

""V/E'ER  frind  Simpson  was  in  here  a  while  ago,"  said  Mr. 
A       Dooley,  "an'  he  was  that  mad." 

"What  ailed  him?"  asked  Mr.  Hennessy. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Dooley,  "it  seems  he  wint  into  me  frind 
Hip  Lung's  laundhry  to  get  his  shirt  an'  it  wasn't  ready.  He 
called  Hip  Lung  such  names  as  he  cud  raymimber  an'  thried  to 
dhrag  him  around  th'  place  be  his  shinin'  braid.  But  instead  iv 
askin'  f'r  mercy,  as  he  ought  to,  Hip  Lung  swung  a  flat-iron  on 
him  an'  thin  ironed  out  his  spine  as  he  galloped  up  th'  stairs. 
He  come  to  me  f'r  advice  an'  Hogan,  who  was  here,  grabs  him 
an'  says  he : 

"I  congratulate  ye,  my  boy.  Ye  have  a  chance  to  be  wan  iv 
th'  first  martyrs  in  th'  white  race  in  th'  gr-reat  sthruggle  that's 
comin'  between  thim  an'  th'  tinted  races  iv  th'  wnrruld,'  he  says. 
'Ye'll  be  another  Jawn  Browrfs  body  or  Mrs.  O'Leary's  cow. 
Go  back  an'  let  th'  Chink  kill  ye,  an'  cinchries  hence  people  will 
come  with  wreaths  an'  ate  hard  biled  eggs  on  ye'er  grave,'  he 
says.     But  Simpson  said  he  did  not  care  to  be  a  martyr. 

"Hogan,  d'ye  mind,  has  a  theery  that   it's  all  been  up  with 


60  WERNER'S  READINGS 

us  blonds  since  th'  Jap'nese  war.  Hogan  is  a  prophet.  He's 
wan  iv  th'  gr-reatest  prophets  I  know.  A  prophet,  Hinnissy,  is 
a  man  that  foresees  trouble.  A  successful  weather  prophet  is  wan 
that  predicts  thunder-storms,  hurrycanes  an'  earthquakes ;  a  good 
financial  prophet  is  wan  that  predicts  panics,  iverybody  busted 
an'  Jawn  D.  Rockyfeller  windin'  a  hand-organ. 

"Says  I :  'Cheer  up ;  we'll  have  a  good  time  at  th'  picnic  next 
Saturday.'  Says  Hogan:  'It  will  rain  at  th'  picnic'  Oh,  he's  a 
rale  prophet.  He  cudden't  find  a  goold  mine  f'r  ye,  but  he  cud 
see  th'  bottom  iv  wan  through  three  thousand  feet  iv  bullyon. 

.  "Hogan  says  th'  time  has  come  f'r  the  subjick  races  iv  th' 
wurruld  to  rayjooce  us  fair  wans  to  their  own  complexion  be 
batin'  us  black  an'  blue.  Up  to  now  'twas:  'Sam,  ye  black  rascal, 
tow  in  thim  eggs  or  I'll  push  ye'er  face  in  th'  fire.'  'Yassir,'  says 
Sam.  'Comin,'  he  says.  'Twas :  'Wow  Chow,  while  ye'er  idly 
stewin'  me  cuffs  I'll  set  fire  to  me  unpaid  bills.'  'I  wud  feel 
repaid  be  a  kick,'  says  Wow  Chow.  'Twas:  'Maharajah  Sewar, 
swing  th'  fan  swifter  or  I'll  have  to  roll  over  f'r  me  dog-whip.' 
'Higgins  Sahib,'  says  Maharajah  Sewar,  'Higgins  Sahib,  beloved 
of  Gawd  an'  Kipling,  ye'er  punishments  ar-re  th'  nourishment  iv 
th'  faithful.  My  blood  hath  served  thine  f'r  manny  ginerations. 
At  laste  two.  'Twas  thine  old  man  that  blacked  my  father's  eye 
an'  sint  my  uncle  up  f'r  eight  days.  How  will  ye'er  honor  have 
th'  accursed  swine's  flesh  cooked  f'r  breakfast  in  th'  mornin'  whin 
I'm  through  fannin'  ye?' 

"But  now,  says  Hogan,  it's  all  changed ;  an'  in  a  few  years 
I'll  be  takin'  in  laundry  in  a  basement,  an'  ye'll  be  settin'  in  front 
iv  ye'er  cabin  home  playin'  on  a  banjo  an'  watchin'  ye'er  little 
pickahinnissies  rollickin'  on  th'  ground  an'  wondhrin'  whin  th' 
lynchin'  party'll  arrive. 

"That's  what  Hogan  says.  I  nivir  knew  th'  subjick  races 
had  so  much  in  thim  before.  A  few  years  ago  I  had  no  more 
thought  iv  Japan  thin  I  have  iv  Dorgan's  cow.  I  admire  Dorgan's 
cow.  I  have  often  leaned  on  th'  fence  an'  watched  Dorgan  milkin' 
his  cow.     Sometimes  I  wondhered  why  as  good  an'  large  a  cow 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  JQ.  61 

as  that  shud  let  a  little  man  like  Dorgan  milk  her.  But  if 
Dorgan's  cow  shud  stand  up  on  her  hind  legs,  kick  over  the 
bucket,  chase  Dorgan  out  iv  th'  lot,  put  on  a  khaki  unyform,  grab 
hold  iv  a  Mauser  rifle  an'  begin  shootin'  at  me,  I  wudden't  be 
more  surprised  thin  I  am  at  th'  idee  iv  Japan  bein'  wan  iv  th' 
nations  iv  th'  wurruld. 

"I  don't  see  what  th'  subjick  races  have  got  to  kick  about,  Hin- 
nissy.  We've  been  awfully  good  to  thim.  We  sint  them  mission- 
aries to  teach  thim  th'  error  iv  their  relligyon,  an'  nawthin'  cud  be 
kinder  thin  that,  f'r  there's  nawthin'  people  like  betther  thin  to 
be  told  that  their  parents  are  not  be  anny  means  where  they 
thought  they  were,  but  in  a  far  more  crowded  an'  excitin' 
locality.  An'  with  th'  missionaries  we  sint  sharpshooters  that 
cud  pick  off  a  Chinyman  beatin'  th'  contribution-box  at  five 
hundhred  yards.  We  put  up  palashal  goluf -courses  in  their 
cimitries,  an'  what  was  wanst  th'  tomb  iv  Hung  Chang,  th'  gr-reat 
Tartar  impror,  rose  to  th'  dignity  iv  bein'  th'  bunker  guardin'  th' 
fifth  green. 

"No  Chinyman  cud  fail  to  be  pleased  at  seein'  a  tall  English- 
man hittin'  th'  Chinyman's  grandfather's  coffin  with  a  niblick. 

"An'  now,  all  these  here  wretched  millyons  that  we've  done 

so  much  f'r  ar-re  turnin'  on  us.     Th'  Japs  threaten  us  with  war. 

Th'    Chinese   won't  buy    shoes     fr'm    us   an'   ar-re    chasin'   th' 

missionaries  out  iv  their  cosy  villas,  an'  not  even  givin'  them  a 

chance  to  carry  away  their  piannies  or  their  silverware.    There's 

th'  divvle  to  pay  all  along  th'  levee  fr'm  Manchura  to  Madagascar. 

accordin'  to  Hogan.    Th'  first  thing  we  know  all  th'  other  subjick 

i races  will  be  up.     Th'  horses  will  kick  and  bite,  th'   dogs  fly 

;at  our  throats  whin  we  lick  thim,  th'  fishes  will  refuse  to  be 

caught,  th'   cattle  an'  pigs   will   set  fire  to  th'   stock-yards,   an' 

(there'll  be   a  gin-ral  rebellyon  against  th'  white  man.     It's  no 

'laughin'  mather,  T  tell  ye. 

"A  subjick  race  is  on'y  funny  whin  its  ra-aly  subjick.  About 
three  years  ago  I  stopped  laughin'  at  Tap'nese  jokes.  Ye  have 
to  feel  supeeryor  to  laugh,  an'. I'm  gettin'  over  that  feelin'.     An' 


62  WERNER'S  READINGS 

nawthin'  makes  a  man  so  mad  an'  so  scared  as  whin  something 
he  looked  down  on  as  infeeryor  tur-rns  on  him.  If  a  fellow  man 
hits  him  he  hits  him  back.  But  if  a  dog  bites  him  he  yells,  'Mad 
dog  !'  an'  him  an'  th'  neighbors  pound  th'  dog  to  pieces  with  clubs. 
If  th'  naygurs  down  South  iver  got  together  an'  flew  at  their 
masters  ye'd  heer  no  more  coon  songs  f'r  a  while.  Anyhow,  I 
can't  take  the  time  to  worry  about  it  yet,  I  guess  they've  been 
infeeryor  too  long  to  change.     It's  got  to  be  a  habit  with  thim." 


ONLY  A  WOMAN'S  HEART. 


ONLY  a  woman's  heart,  whereon 
You  have  trod  in  your  careless  haste; 
A  thing  at  best  that  was  easy  won ; 
What  matter  how  drear  a  waste 
Her  life  may  be  in  the  future  years! 
What  matters  it?     Do  not  start — 
It  is  only  the  sound  of  dropping  tears 
As  wrung  from  a  woman's  heart. 

'Tis  of  little  worth,  for  it  cost  you  naught 

But  a  honeyed  word  and  a  smile. 
Was  the  fault  not  hers,  if  she  blindly  thought 

You  were  truer  than  truth  the  while? 
What  if  the  seeds  of  a  life-long  woe 

From  its  broken  shrine  upstart! 
What  does  it  matter  to  you?     You  know 

It  is  only  a  woman's  heart. 

Only  a  heart  to  be  thrown  away 

With  the  recklessness  that  a  boy 
Who,  careless  of  pleasure  and  weary  of  play, 

Would  throw  down  a  broken  toy. 
The  world  is  fair  and  the  world  is  wide, 

And  there's  more  in  its  busy  mart 
(Conscience,  you  know,  vou  have  put  aside)  ; 

It  is  only  a  woman's  he.**  ^ 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  jg.  63 

But  powerless  is  your  boasted  will 

To  vanquish  the  ghost  of  sin; 
It  has  spoken  oft,  and  it  whispers  still 

Your  soul's  dark  chambers  in. 
In  the  drama  of  one  life  you  know 

You  have  acted  the  villain's  part, 
For  you  struck  a  hard,  a  cruel  blow, 

And  it  fell  on  a  woman's  heart. 

Only  a  woman's  heart,  ah,  well ! 

Tis  little,  I  trow,  to  you, 
Whether  that  heart  was  as  false  as  hell, 

Or  as  heaven  itself  as  true, 
You  may  hug  the  thought  to  your  selfish  breast 

That  you're  skilled  in  deception's  art; 
But  I  brand  you  thief,  for  the  peace  and  rest 

That  you  stole  from  a  woman's  heart. 


PUSSY   AND   THE   LACE. 


Elizabeth  Cleghorn  Gaskell. 
(1810-1865) 


YES,  such  lace  cannot  be  got  now  for  either  love  or  money; 
made  by  the  nuns  abroad,  they  tell  me.  They  say  that 
they  can't  make  it  now  even  there.  I  treasure  up  my  lace  very 
much.  I  daren't  even  trust  the  washing  of  it  to  my  maid.  I  al- 
ways wash  it  myself.  And  once  it  had  a  narrow  escape.  Of  course, 
you  know  that  such  lace  must  never  be  starched  or  ironed.  Some 
people  wash  it  in  sugar  and  water,  and  some  in  coffee,  to  make 
it  the  right  yellow  color ;  but  I  myself  have  a  very  good  recipe 
for  washing   it  in  milk,   which   stiffens   it   enough,   and  gives   it 


64  WERNER'S  READINGS 

a  good  creamy  color.  Well,  I  had  tacked  it  together  (and  the 
beauty  of  this  fine  lace  is  that,  when  it  is  wet,  it  goes  into  a  very 
little  space),  and  put  it  to  soak  in  milk,  when,  unfortunately,  I 
left  the  room.  On  my  return,  I  found  pussy  on  the  table, 
looking  very  like  a  thief,  but  gulping  very  uncomfortably,  as 
if  she  was  half-choked  with  something  she  wanted  to  swallow 
and  could  not.  And,  would  you  believe  it  ?  At  first  I  pitied  her, 
and  said,  "Poor  pussy!  poor  pussy!"  till,  all  at  once,  I  looked 
and  saw  the  cup  of  milk  empty — cleaned  out!  "You  naughty 
cat!"  said  I,  and  I  believe  I  was  provoked  enough  to  give  her  a 
slap,  which  did  no  good,  but  only  helped  the  lace  down — just 
as  one  slaps  a  choking  child  on  the  back.  I  could  have  cried, 
I  was  so  vexed;  but  I  determined  I  would  not  give  the  lace  up 
without  a  struggle  for  it.  I  hoped  the  lace  might  disagree  with 
her,  at  any  rate;  but  it  would  have  been  too  much  for  Job,  if 
he  had  seen,  as  I  did,  that  cat  come  in,  quite  placid  and  purring, 
not  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after,  and  almost  expecting  to  be  stroked. 
"No,  pussy!  if  you  have  any  conscience  you  ought  not  to  expect 
that !"  And  then  a  thought  struck  me ;  and  I  rang  the  bell  for 
my  maid,  and  sent  her  to  the  doctor,  with  my  compliments,  and 
would  he  be  kind  enough  to  lend  me  one  of  his  top-boots  for 
an  hour  ?  I  did  not  think  there  was  anything  odd  in  the  message ; 
but  Jenny  said  the  young  men  in  the  office  laughed  as  if  they 
would  be  ill  at  my  wanting  a  top-boot.  When  it  came,  Jenny 
and  I  put  pussy  in,  with  her  forefeet  straight  down,  so  that 
they  were  fastened,  and  could  not  scratch,  and  we  gave  her  a 
teaspoonful  of  currant-jelly  in  which  I  had  mixed  some  tartar 
emetic.  I  shall  never  forget  how  anxious  I  was  for  the  next 
half-hour.  I  took  pussy  to  my  own  room,  and  spread  a  clean 
towel  on  the  floor.  I  could  have  kissed  her  when  she  returned 
the  lace  to  sight,  very  much  as  it  had  gone  down.  Jenny  had  boil- 
ing water  ready,  and  we  soaked  it  and  soaked  it,  and  spread  it 
on  a  lavender-bush  in  the  sun  before  I  could  touch  it  again,  even 
to  put  it  in  milk.  But  now  you  would  never  guess  that  it  had 
been  in  pussy's  inside. 


AND  REGIT  A  TIONS  NO.  39.  65 

TRUE   TO    BROTHER   SPEAR. 


I  CAN'T  decide  why  Brother  Spear 
Was  never  joined  to  me; 
It  wasn't  because  the  good  old  Dear 

Hadn't  every  chance  to  be ; 
If  Poetry  remarked  one  time  . 

That  Womanhood  is  true, 
It's  more  than  probable  that  I'm 

The  one  it  had  in  view; 
For,  search  the  city  low  and  high, 

And  no  one  will  you  hear 
To  say  or  hint  but  what  that  I 

Was  true  to  Brother  Spear. 

I  mothered  all  his  daughters  when 

Their  mother's  life  cut  short, 
Although  they  didn't  — now  or  then — 

So  much  as  thank  me  for't; 
I  laughed — though  scorched  with  inside  rage- 

And  said  I  didn't  care, 
When  his  young  son,  of  spank'ble  age, 

Removed  my  surplus  hair; 
I  called  and  called  and  called  there;  why 

He  ne'er  was  in  seemed  queer; 
The  housemaid  even  owned  that  I 

Was  true  to  Brother  Spear. 

I  hired  a  sitting  in  the  church 

Near  him,  but  cornerwise, 
So  his  emotions  I  could  search 

With  my  devoted  eyes; 
And  when  the  sermon  used  to  play 

On  love,  divine  and  free, 


66  WERNER'S  READINGS 

I  nodded  him,  as  if  to  say: 
"He's  hitting  you  and  me!" 

He  went  and  took  another  pew— 
Of  "thousand  tongues"  in  fear; 

But  what  sin  was  it  to  be  true 
To  good  old  Brother  Spear? 

Poor  man !  I  recollect  he  spoke, 
One  large  prayer-meeting  night, 

And  told  how  smallish  we  all  look 
In  Heaven's  majestic  sight; 

He  said,  not  worthy  he  had  been — 
By  conscience  e'er  abhorred — 

To  be  a  door-keeper  within 
The  temple  of  the  Lord ; 

And  that  his  place  for  evermore, 
Undoubtedly  and  clear, 

Was  mainly  back  behind  the  door- 
Poor  humble  Brother  Spear ! 

And  then  /  rose,  and  made  a  speech, 

Brimful  of  soul-distress, 
And  told  them  how  words  could  not  reach 

My  own  unworthiness ; 
How  orphanage  I  tried  to  soothe, 

And  cheerless  widowerhood; 
But  in  the  Lord's  great  house,  in  truth, 

I,  too,  felt  far  from  good, 
And  that  my  trembling  heart  and  mind 

Compelled   it   to   appear 
That  my  place  henceforth  was  behind 

The  door  with  Brother  Spear. 

Poor  man !  he  ne'er  again,  they  say, 
Was  heard  to  strongly  speak ; 

He  took  down  ill  that  very  day, 
And  died  within  a  week. 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  39.  67 

But  one  prayer  oft  they  heard  him  give — 

That  when  his  days  were  o'er, 
/  still  upon  this  earth  might  live 

A  thousand  years  or  more. 
As  his  betrothed  I  figure  now 

And  shed  the  frequent  tear; 
And  all  his  relatives  will  vow 

I'm  true  to  Brother  Spear. 


THE   GOVERNOR'S   LAST   LEVEE. 


Sara  Beaumont  Kennedy. 


[By  permission  of  the  author  and  of  the  Ladies'  Home  Journal^ 

TRON  was  gone  from  the  South,  and  Martin,  destined  to 
be  the  last  of  the  Royal  Governors  of  North  Carolina, 
ruled  in  the  New  Berne  palace.  The  country  was  seething 
with  discontent  engendered  by  exorbitant  taxation  and  bad 
government.  Tyron  had  bequeathed  to  his  successor  a  legacy  of 
popular  dissatisfaction  which  was  to  break  at  last  in  the 
Revolutionary  storms.  There  were  political  prisoners  in  the  New 
Berne  jail  awaiting  their  pardon  or  condemnation  at  his  hands, 
and  among  them  the  best  loved  was  Thomas  Ruffin  of  Hillsboro. 

Each  spring  since  her  childhood  Anise  Burgwyn  had  been 
sent  to  Hillsboro  to  visit  her  aunt,  and  Thomas  Ruffin  had  been 
her  next-door  neighbor.  He  was  older,  with  a  courtier's  power 
to  please.  And  so  it  chanced  that,  while  to  him  she  seemed  ever 
but  an  amusing  child,  he  came  gradually  to  fill  the  whole  horizon 
of  her  life. 

Now  he  had  been  found  guilty  of  treason  against  His  Serene 
Majesty  across  the  sea,  and  the  full  penalty  of  the  law  was  to 
be  exacted. 


63  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Just  after   New  Year,  one  morning,  two  liveried   footmen    j 
came  out  of  the  palace  door,  each  bearing  a  huge  basket  decked 
with  scarlet  ribbons.     At  every  door  of  consequence  they  paused 
and  left  a  square  paper  closed  with  the  Governor's  seal  which 
read: 

"His  Excellency,  Governor  Martin,  bids  you  to  a 
levee  to  be  given  in  his  palace  on  Thursday,  ye  twenty- 
third  of  January,   1774,  at  seven  in  ye  evening." 

Trunks  were  opened,  closets  ransacked,  seamstresses  were 
summoned,  and  the  town  went  to  work  on  its  ball  clothes. 

"Not  going  to  the  levee !"  Betty  Gaston  exclaimed  to  Anise 
as  she  twisted  herself  before  the  mirror.  Why,  Anise,  what  ails 
you  ?  Does  your  decision  mean  a  quarrel  with  Colonel  Ferguson, 
the  Governor's  nephew?" 

"Nay;  I  have  but  lost  interest  in  the  ball." 

Betty  laughed.     "Go   to  this   ball   you   must.     My  brother    : 
would  miss  you  sorely,  and  you  know  Colonel  Ferguson  always 
asks  you  for  the  cotillon." 

But  Anise  shook  her  head.  The  sight  of  party  finery  made 
her  sick  at  heart.  The  rest  of  the  world  might  forget  Thomas 
Ruffin,  but  she  remembered,  and  the  thought  stung  her  with 
misery. 

The  morning  of  the  ball  Betty  came  hastily  in. 

"What  think  you,  Anise?  Father  has  a  plan  to  set  free 
Master  Ruffin.  The  thing  is  to  keep  the  Governor  in  good 
humor  and  to  gain  Colonel  Ferguson's  influence.  You  only  can 
do  the  latter ;  and  so  father  says  that  you  must  go  to  the  ball 
and  be  as  gracious  as  you  know  how." 

So  it  was  that  when  darkness  fell,  Anise  made  herself  beau- 
tiful in  her  lilac  satin,  her  pearl  necklace,  and  her  shoes  with  their 
silver  buckles,  and  went  away  to  the  palace.  Shimmer  of  silk  and 
shine  of  jewels  were  everywhere;  garlands  swung  from  cornice 
and  ceiling,  and  on  the  marble  mantels  silver  candelabra  held 
great  twinkling  bouquets  that  had  blossomed  flame.  Dainty  dames 
with  powdered  coiffures  swung  back  and  forth  in  the  mazes  of 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  39,  69 

ie  dance,  and  cavaliers  in  parti-colored  velvet  and  perfumed  lace 
iluted  them  with  stately  bows;  while  over  the  whole,  like  an 
ivisible  intoxicant,  the  music  throbbed  and  rippled. 

At  the  head  of  the  room  stood  Governor  Martin.  By  him 
gas  Colonel  Ferguson,  the  personification  of  youth.  The  first 
;art  of  the  evening  his  duties  kept  him  at  his  uncle's  elbow,  but 
t  the  earliest  moment  he  was  at  Anise's  side,  protesting  that  the 
vening  would  be  spoiled  for  him  if  she  were  pledged  to  any  one 
lse  for  the  cotillon. 

"Master  Gaston  asked  me " 

"But  you  did  not  promise  him?" 

"I  told  him  it  was  a  matter  of  such  grave  import  that  I 
oust  have  time  to  consider." 

"You  knew  well  that  I  would  dance  with  no  one  else.  Tell 
Master  Gaston  he  may  have  the  minuet  instead."  He  reached 
cor  her  dancing-tablet,  but  she  withdrew  it,  laughing  merrily. 

"Master  Gaston  bid  high  for  the  dance,  offering  me  his 
new  riding-horse.     Will  you  raise  his  bid?" 

"Even  unto  the  half  of  my  kingdom !" 

She  held  out  the  tablet.     "I  will  name  the  wager  later." 

Then  some  one  plucked  him  by  the  sleeve  and  he  found  him- 
self obliged  to  give  his  attention  to  a  new  arrival. 

They  talked  apart  in  undertones ;  but  Anise  caught  these 
words : 

" a  plot  to  arouse  public  sympathy.     Your  influence 

is  to  be  most  adroitly  sought,  and  you  must  be  upon  your  guard. 
It  behooves  us  to  make  an  example  of  this  fellow  if  we  hope  for 
oeace." 

"Any  intercession  on  his  behalf  would  be  useless,"  answered 
Ferguson.  "Thomas  Rufnn  is  a  doomed  man.  The  order  for 
his  execution  was  this  day  written  and  signed." 

"And  his  associates — what  of  them?" 

"Being  but  minor  offenders,  my  uncle  hath  listened  to  the 
court's  recommendation  for  mercy,  and  orders  for  their  release 
lie  on  His  Excellency's  table  along  with  the  sentence  of  Master 


10  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Ruffin,  awaiting  but  the  insertion  of  the  names  and  the  affixing: § 
of  the  official  seal." 

"There  can  be  no  mistake  about  this?" 

"I  left  the  papers  upon  my  uncle's  desk  in  the  secretary's 
room  not  an  hour  ago." 

When  John  Gaston  sought  Anise  for  the  minuet  she  was 
not  in  the  room. 

In  the  hall,  in  the  shadow  of  a  curtain,  she  stood  until  thfef 
dancing  had  begun.     Then  she  crept  to  the  rear  stairway,  and 
sped  downward  through  the  semi-darkness.  The  order  for  Thomas 
Ruffin's  execution  was  on  the  Governor's  table  in  the  secretary's;) 
office.     She  had  meant  to  make  his  liberty  the  price  of  her  dance 
with  Ferguson,  but  this  was  a  surer  way. 

The  palace  comprised  three  buildings,  a  large  central  one 
in  which  were  state  apartments,  a  small  one  to  the  right  contain- 
ing the  offices  and  another  to  the  left  containing  the  private 
apartments.  Anise  opened  without  hesitation  the  door  on  the 
right  hand,  and  stood  a  moment  in  doubt,  for  the  flambeaux  from 
the  court  without  threw  a  fitful  light  into  the  colonnade  along 
which  she  must  pass,  and  a  soldier  strode  back  and  forth  in  the 
full  glare  just  outside  the  row  of  columns.  She  gathered  her  lilac 
satin  gown  close  about  her  and  waited  in  the  dark  of  the  door- 
way until  the  guard  came  close  to  her  and  then  turned  on  his 
beat.  Like'  some  stealthy,  cat-footed  animal  of  the  night  shra 
followed  him  from  the  shadow  of  one  column  to  the  shadow  of 
another,  her  satin  slippers  making  no  sound  upon  the  stone  flags. 
Behind  the  last  column  she  waited  while  he  reached  the  door  of 
the  office-building  and  slowly  faced  about.  Nothing  but  that 
stone  pillar  was  between  her  and  a  fate  she  dared  not  picture. 
Cautiously,  step  by  step,  as  the  guard  advanced  she  moved  around 
the  column,  keeping  it  always  between  herself  and  him. 

One,  two,  three,  four  measured  footfalls,  and  the  man  was 
opposite  her;  another  would  take  him  past. 

"Who  goes  there?"  The  blood  in  Anise's  veins  stood  still. 

The  big  clock  upstairs  ticked  thrice  ere,  with  a  grunt,  the 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  jg.  71 

lan  passed  on  satisfied.  His  back  once  turned,  Anise  darted 
nder  the  flambeau  which  hung  beside  the  open  door,  and  leaned 
anting  against  the  wall  in  the  dim  passage.  At  a  table  sat  a 
orter  snoring  loudly,  the  empty  flagon  beside  him  telling  its  own 
lie.  The  door  beyond  him  was  her  destination.  But  when  she  had 
*:ept  to  it  she  found  it  locked.  She  wrung  her  hands  in  an  agony 
f  despair.  Outside,  the  guard  was  again  approaching  and  she 
sad  to  crouch  behind  the  sleeping  porter  to  save  herself.  She 
iw  that  a  bunch  of  keys  hung  from  his  jerkin  pocket.  Instantly 
(he  was  back  at  the  door,  trembling  with  excitement.  The  first 
ey  was  too  large,  the  second  too  small,  but  the  third  turned  and 
le  door  swung  open.  She  dropped  upon  her  knees,  for  a  taper 
urned  on  the  table,  and  those  without  might  see  her  through 
le  curtains.  Crossing  the  room  thus,  she  lifted  herself  carefully 
ntil  the  contents  of  the  table  were  spread  before  her.  This  was 
ot  the  paper,  nor  that,  nor  that.  Here  was  another — but  what 
ras  that  sound?  A  step  in  the  hall?  No,  it  was  but  a  horse 
hamping  at  his  bit  in  the  courtyard.  Ah!  the  paper  must  be 
1  this  packet  tied  with  its  fresh  tape.  Here  it  was :  "Order  in 
'ase  of  Thomas  Ruffin."  Her  fingers  shook  so  she  could 
:arcely  thrust  the  document  into  the  bosom  of  her  gown.  She 
/as  about  to  crawl  away  when  another  paper  in  the  packet  caught 
,er  eye.  It  was  the  order  of  release  for  one  of  Thomas's  asso- 
ciates ;  the  blank  space  was  there  for  the  name,  the  place  below 
lor  the  Governor's  seal.  For  one  moment  the  table  reeled  before 
ie  girl's  eyes;  then  her  mouth  grew  hard;  her  hand  reached  for 
lie  quill ;  then  for  the  sealing-wax ;  then  for  the  Governor's  die 
lat  lay  in  the  tray.  A  moment  more  and  Thomas  Rufnn's  name 
lied  the  blank  line  of  the  release  order  and  the  red  seal  was  in 
;s  proper  place. 

People  said  Anise  Burgwyn  had  never  been  so  beautiful,  had 
ever  smiled  with  such  witchery,  never  danced  with  such  exquisite 
race  as  in  the  cotillon  that  night. 

An  hour  later  she  was  missed  from  among  the  cloaked  and 
ooded  guests  taking  their  decorous  leave  of  the  hosts.  She  had 
lit  some  time  before,  Colonel  Ferguson  said ;  her  head  ached. 


72  WERNER'S  READINGS 

New  Berne  town  slept  late  the  day  after  he  levee.  But  at 
ten  o'clock  there  was  a  great  stir  at  the  palace;  the  Governor's 
private  office  had  been  entered  and  important  papers  abstracted. 
Inquiry  for  the  offender  proved  futile ;  the  porter  declared  the 
keys  had  not  been  out  of  his  possession,  and  the  sentinel  had; 
guarded  the  office  door  all  night.  Colonel  Ferguson  rode  in  hot 
haste  to  the  jail  only  to  find  the  jailer  serene  and  smiling. 

"Master  Ruffin?  Oh,  yes,  sir,  he  got  off  all  right.  Before 
dawn,  while  the  levee  was  still  at  its  height,  a  man  and  a  woman 
came  to  the  jail  with  an  order  for  Master  Ruffin's  immediate 
release ;  and  as  the  paper  was  duly  signed  and  stamped  I  let 
the  prisoner  go." 

By  midday  the  town  was  seething  with  excitement,  and 
explanations  were  offered  and  rejected.  It  seemed  like  the  work 
of  witches.  Toward  evening  an  orderly  cried  through  the  town 
a  reward  of  fifty  pounds  for  the  apprehension  of  the  culprit. 

Anise  Burgwyn,  standing  at  her  gate,  heard  and  laughed  her 
silvery  laugh. 

"Methinks  so  bold  and  bad  a  robber  would  be  worth  twice 
the  sum,  Colonel  Ferguson,"  she  said  to  that  officer. 

She  knew  that  Thomas  Ruffin  was  safe  in  the  insurgent- 
patriots'  camp,  to  share  their  triumph  or  defeat. 


THE   DRESS   REFORMER. 


AN  advocate  of  dress  reform, 
In  dress  reform  array, 
Walked  out,  for  reasons  known  to  her — 

It  was  a  rainy  day. 
Her  gown  was  neat,  and  short,  and  sweet, 
And  frankly  showed  her  tidy  feet; 
And  sister  women  looked  askance, 
Exclaiming  with  each  sidewise  glance: 
"Did  you  ever  \" 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  jg.  73 

The  advocate  of  dress  reform, 

Without  the  least  dismay, 
Went  safely  o'er  the  muddy  street 

And  lightly  on  her  way. 
Her  sisters  gasp,  and  clutch,  and  clasp 
Their  garments  with  a  frantic  grasp, 
And  lift  their  skirts,  quite  unaware, 
To  heights  no  dress  reform  would  dare! 
"Did  you  ever !" 

The  advocate  of  dress  reform 

Goes  home,  quite  fresh  and  dry, 
And,  full  of  satisfaction,  puts 

Her  natty  storm-suit  by. 
Her  sisters  fret  at  mud  and  wet, 
And  scowl,  and  shake,  and  brush,  and  yet 
Console  themselves  in  spite  of  dirt — 
"At  least  we  wear  a  modest  skirt! 
Did  you  ever!" 


THE   McSWATS   SWEAR   OFF. 


[Without  speaking  the  word  "puff"  imitate  the  puff  of  one  smoking.] 

"T    OBELIA,  my  love,  another  long  and  delightful  evening  is 
1— i    before  us." 

The  young  husband  was  arrayed  in  a  dressing-gown  of 
gorgeous,  variegated  and  dazzling  complexion.  He  sat  in  a 
luxurious  armchair  and  rested  his  tired  feet  on  the  soft  plush 
cushions  of  two  other  chairs.  In  his  hand  he  held  a  magazine 
of  large  print,  which  he  was  trying  laboriously  to  read  with  the 
aid  of  an  eye-glass  he  had  purchased  under  the  deep  and  solemn 
conviction  that  his  position  in  society  required  him  to  use  some- 
thing of  the  kind. 


74  WERNERS  READINGS 

"Is  there  anything  else  I  can  do  for  your  comfort, f 
Billiger?"  tenderly  inquired  the  young  wife. 

"I  think  not,  Lobelia,"  he  replied  after  considering  a  few|i 
moments;  "though  if  you  will  kindly  open  that  package  of  'Lone; 
Jack'  and  put  the  smoking  set  within  reach  I  shall  be  obliged." 

Mrs.  McSwat  did  so,  and  with  her  own  fair  hands  she 
filled  his  new  meerschaum,  whose  bowl  was  already  taking  a 
brownish  tinge  that  gave  promise  of  richer  and  grander  result  | 
in  the  happy  future. 

"You  don't  know,  Lobelia,   (puff)   how  gratefully  I   (puff) 
appreciate  your    (puff)   kindness  in  interposing  no  objection  to,, 
my  indulgence  in   (puff,  puff)  this  habit.     Hard  as  would  have, 
been  the  sacrifice,  Lobelia,   I    (puff)    would  have  quit  it  cheer- 
fully— that  is  to  say,    (puff)   with  comparative  cheerfulness — if  I 
you  had  exacted  it." 

"How  could  I  have  asked  you  to  quit  smoking,  Billiger," 
replied  the  young  wife,  "when  you  have  never  made  the  least 
objection  to  my  chewing  gum?" 

Mr.  McSwat  laid  the  pipe  down  and  looked  at  her  in 
astonishment. 

"Do  you  chew  gum,  Lobelia?"  he  said.  "I  never  sus- 
pected it." 

"•I — I  confess  I  do  sometimes,  Billiger." 

"Mrs.  McSwat,"  said  he  severely,  "have  you  any  idea  of 
the  consequences  of  inveterate  gum-chewing?  Do  you  know  the 
inconceivably  vile  materials  of  which  the  stuff  is  made?" 

"It  can't  be  any  worse,  Mr.  McSwat,  than  the  poisonous, 
filthy,  reeking  fumes  of  that  dirty  old  pipe  you  are " 

"Lobelia  McSwat,  have  a  care!  Don't  provoke  me  too 
far,  or " 

"Billiger  McSwat,  do  you  dare  to  threaten  me?  Don't  glare 
and  squint  at  me  through  that  eye-glass  till  you  have  learned 
how  to  use  it,  sir.    You  are " 

"Lobelia,"  exclaimed   the  young    husband,  pale    with    con- 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  39.  75 

ilicting  emotions,  "you  have  spoken  sneeringly  of  this  meer- 
chaum.  It  cost  twenty-five  dollars.  But  let  that  pass.  I  can 
%ear  it.  To  think,  though,  that  the  woman  I  have  vowed  to  love 
1  pnd  cherish,"  and  his  voice  faltered — "upon  whom  I  have  poured 
>ut  the  treasure  of  a  heart's  richest  affection,  is  a  g-gum  chew- 
hewer !    O!    O!    Lobelia!" 

"B-Billiger !"    sobbed    Lobelia,    "I'll    qu-quit    ch-chewing '  if 
'ou'll  stop  smoking!" 

"I'll  do  it,  my  love !"  he  exclaimed. 

His  brow  aflame  with  lofty  and  noble  resolve,  Billiger 
wrapped  his  smoking  set,  with  pipe,  tobacco  and  all,  in  a  paper 
";ind  threw  the  package  to  the  remotest  depths  of  a  dark  and 
(loomy  attic  on  the  top-most  floor,  while  Lobelia  gathered  up 
111  her  wads  of  gum  from  their  various  hiding-places,  rolled 
l:hem  into  a  compact  bundle,  and  threw  them  into  the  attic 
ikewise. 

"With  these  slight  sacrifices,  Lobelia,"  said  Billiger,  ten- 
derly, "we  propitiate  the  good  angels  of  domestic  bliss,  and 
'banish  forever  the  demon  of  discord  from  our  hearthstone!" 


Forty-eight  hours  had  passed — forty-eight  short,  happy 
iiours.     Night  had  come  again. 

Billiger  was  in  that  attic.  He  had  sneaked  into  it,  and  was 
'fumbling  around  noiselessly  for  something.  In  the  dark  his 
hand  had  come  in  contact  with  a  shoe,  and  he  grasped  it.  It  had 
(la  foot  in  it. 

There  was  a  faint  scream. 

"Mrs.  McSwat,  is  that  you?" 

"Air.  McSwat,  it  is." 

"What  are  you  doing  here,  madam?" 

"Sir,  I  am  looking  for  my  gum.  What  are  you  doing 
here?" 

"Madam,  I  am  hunting  for  my  pipe." 


76  WERNER'S  READINGS 

DICKENS'S  CHRISTMAS  GREETING. 


William    Sterling   Battis. 


A  Merry  Christmas  to  everybody !  A  Happy  New  Year  to  all 
the  world  !  —  Christmas  Carol. 

Christmas  brings  a  brief  season  of  happiness  and  enjoyment. 

— Pickwick. 
How  many  old  recollections  and  how  many  dormant  sympathies 

does  Christmas  time  awaken  !  — Pickwick. 

Reflect  upon  your  present  blessings,  of  which  every  man  has 

many.  — Sketches. 

It  is  a  world  full  of  hearts,  and  a  serious  world,  with  all  its 

follies.  — Battle  of  Life. 

Still  on  the  lower  branches  of  the  tree,  Christmas  associations 

cluster  thick.  •  — Christmas  Tree. 

The   will   to   do   well  is  the  next  thing  to  having  the  power. 

— Sketches. 
May  the  New  Year  be  a  happy  one  to  you,  happy  to  many 

more  whose  happiness  depends  on  you.  — Chimes. 

And  it  might  be  pleasant  to  remember,  Christmas  day,  who  made 

lame  men  walk  and  blind  men  see.  — Christinas  Carol. 

So  in  our  judgments,  as  in  our  doings,  we  must  bear  and  forbear. 

— Hard  Times. 

Glorious  !  Golden  sunlight !  Heavenly  sky  !  Sweet,  fresh  air, 
and  the  merry  chime  of  bells  I  — Christmas  Carol. 

Reflect !  cheerfulness  and  content  are  great  beautifiers,  and 
famous  preservers  of  good  looks.  — Barnaby  Rudge. 

Every  blessing  that  a  true  and  earnest  heart  can  call  down  from 
the  source  of  all  truth,  cheer  you.  — Oliver  Twist. 

Every  failure  teaches  a  man  something,  if  he  will  only  learn. 

— Little  Dorrit. 

That  man  must  be  a  misanthrope,  indeed,  in  whose  heart  some- 
thing like  a  jovial  feeling  is  not  aroused  by  the  recurrence 
of  Christmas.  — Sketches. 

It  is  the  highest  part  of  the  highest  creed  to  forgive  before 
memory  sleeps.  — Haunted  Man. 

Natural  affection  and  instinct  are  the  most  beautiful  of  the 
Almighty's  works.  — Nicholas  Nickleby. 

Good  morning,  sir  !  A  merry  Christmas  to  you !  God  bless  us, 
every  one  !  ^-Christmas  Carol. 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  39.  77 

THE   CHATTERBOX. 


Frances  Aymar  Mathews. 


[Monologue  for  a  Woman.] 

[Owned  exclusively  by  Edgar  S.  Werner  &  Co. 

Characters  : 

Mrs.  Augustus  Blount. 

Miss  Maybelle  de  Noode. 

The  Baron. 

The  Count. 

Mr.  Augustus  Blount. 

Scene. — Mrs.  Blount's  private  box  at  the  Metropolitan 
(Ooera  House  on  a  Wagner  first  night.  Mrs.  Blount  and  May- 
ibelle  discovered  sitting  well  forward;  Mr.  Blount  standing 
bored  in  the  background;  the  Baron  just  entering,  accompanied 
by  the  Count. 

Mrs.  Blount. — Why,  Baron  dear,  how  do  you  do?    Is  this 

tyour  friend  the  Count  ?     My  cousin,  Miss  Maybelle  de  Noode ; 

imy  husband,  Mr.  Blount. 

[All  boiv  profoundly.     The  Baron  presents  Mrs.  Blount 

,  with  a  cluster  of  superb  roses.  Mr.  Blount  withdrazvs  into  still 

1  greater  privacy  and  taking  out  a  newspaper  begins  to  read.] 

How  kind  of  you  to  think  of  me!    Jacque  roses  I  adore;  of 

'course,  we'll  "talk",  why  not,  I  pray?  "The  music!"  such  a  bore. 
[Aside  to  Maybelle.]  My  darling  May,  I'm  sure  the  Count  is 
just  a  perfect  love.     Why  don't  you  speak  in  French  to  him  and 

! let  him  lace  your  glove?  [Maybelle  and  the  Count  withdraw 
slightly  into  the  recess  of  the  box.]  Oh,  Baron,  such  a  sweet, 
sweet  scheme.   We're  going  to  give  a  play — for  orphans,  I'm  to  do 

ithe  lead  and  you'll  support,  say?  of  course,  you  will !  You  lovely 
boy,  and  don't  forget  next  week  our  dinner-dance  at  Mrs.  Newe's 
with  all  our  own  dear  clique.  [Turns  to  the  Count.]  Oh,  Count, 
I  want  to  ask  you  now,  my  memory  is  so  poor ;  on  Tuesday  next 
from  three  till  six,  I  shall  expect  you,  sure ;  Maybelle,  my  love,  do 


78  WERNER'S  READINGS 

tell  the  Count  about  Miss  Glibbe's  last  tea,  of  how  she  blundered 
and  mistook  our  footman  for  Lord  Leigh !  [  Turns  back  to  the 
Baron.]  Yes,  Baron,  I  am  sure  of  it,  poor  Ethel  is  to  blame; 
divorce,  of  course,  and  Arthur  has  two  millions — what  a  shame ! 
[Taps  his  arm  with  her  fan.]  Oh,  nonsense!  no,  you  don't  at  all. 
You  do?  Love  me!  Well,  there,  yes — just  one  bud — I'll  pin  it 
in  your  boutonniere.  Now — promise  like  the  saint  you  are! 
You'll  join  us  on  the  yacht.  I  knew  you  would.  Do  tell  me,  too, 
are  you  a  real  "crack"  shot?  [Turns  to  the  Count.]  I  beg  your 
pardon',  Count,  you  asked?  Oh,  "German,"  yes,  of  course:  dear 
Wagner!  what  a  soul  he  had.  Yes,  Alvary  seems  hoarse.  [Turns 
to  Maybelle.]  Maybelle,  my  love,  do  tell  me  quick,  is  that  Dick 
Delamere?  it  is?  the  scamp!  and  with  Miss  Ketch! — his  wife  not 
dead  a  year.  [Turns  back  to  the  Baron.]  Yes.  Baron,  yes,  it 
must  be  so;  I  read  it  just  to-day.  The  papers  never  make  mis- 
takes. Poor  Nan  was  always — gay.  [To  Mr.  Blount.]  What's 
that,  my  dear?  "Excuse  you?"  Oh,  of  course.  These  dreadful 
men !  They  always  want  to  "go  and  smoke,"  no  matter  where  or 
when.  [Exit  Mr.  Blount.  The  leader  of  the  orchestra  turns 
around  in  his  chair.]  Whatever  is  the  matter  now?  Herr  Seidl's 
turned  around !  [Music  slowly  ceases.]  And  orchestra  and  artists, 
all  [music  stops  entirely]  are  silent,  not  a  sound,  and  every  soul 
in  all  the  house  is  staring  straight  at  us ;  do,  Baron,  go,  for 
heaven's  sake!  and  call  my  husband.  Gus !  [Exit  the  Baron 
hastily.]  Maybelle,  whatever  have  you  done?  or  what  on  earth's 
occurred  to — What!  my  "talking!"  Miss  De  Noode,  I  scarce 
have  said  one  word ! ! — and  if  I  had  I'd  have  them  know — the 
horrid  ill-bred  things ! — I'll  laugh  and  chat  the  four  acts  through, 
no  matter  what  it  brings ;  the  bare  idea !  to  stop  right  short  and 
stare  just  like  an  ox,  because  I  choose  to  entertain  in  my  own 
opera-box. 

[Enter  the  Baron  and  Mr.  Blount — and  exeunt  presently 
the  whole  party,  Mrs.  Blount  very  reluctantly ,  as  the  music 
slowly  resumes,  and  Herr  Seidl  takes  up  his  baton.] 

[Curtain.] 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  3Q.  79 

ONE   GIRL    AND   THREE   VIEWS. 


Frances  de  Wolfe  Fenwick. 


[Written  expressly  for  this  book.] 

First  View  {Her  Brother's*). 

THERE'S  a  good  old  Bet — my  sister,  you  know, 
As  nice  a  girl  as  you'd  want  to  meet ; 
But,  Gee !    what  a  mouth !    and  what  goggly  eyes ! 

And  such  hair !   it's  redder  than  any  beet. 
Poor  thing !  it's  queer  she  should  be  so  plain — 

I'm  sure  my  mother's  good-looking,  yet — 
Too  bad  one's  sister  should  look  like  that. 
And  yet  I'm  fond  of  her — poor  old  Bet ! 

Second  View  {Her  Lover's). 
Why,  there's  Elizabeth — Powers  above! 

Can  anything  human  be  so  fair? 
What  glorious  eyes — they're  pools  of  light, 

And  where  could  you  match  that  auburn  hair  ? 
I  wonder  every  man  on  the  street 

Doesn't  gape  in  wonder  and  hold  his  breath. 
Qeopatra  and  Helen  were  fools  to  her; 

Perhaps  Venus  might  touch  her — Elizabeth! 

Third  View   {Her  Girl  Friend's). 
Why,  here  comes  Betty;    she  looks  quite  nice 

In  that  large,  black  hat — it  tones  down  her  hair. 
She's  wise  to  stick  to  those  dotted  veils, — 

They  make  her  complexion  look  quite  fair. 
Her  mouth  is  big;  but  she's  got  nice  eyes! 

She's  really  almost  a  pretty  girl, 
When  she's  dressed  as  well  as  she  is  to-day — 

I  must  ask  how  she  keeps  her  hair  in  curl. 


80  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"THERE   IS   NO    SUCH  THING  AS   PAIN." 


Henry  C.  Rowland. 


THE  sudden  shying  of  his  hunter  almost  threw  the  doctor 
into  the  road,  and  for  a  while  he  hovered  in  mid-air  at 
least  three  feet  above  the  seat.  So  perfect,  however,  was  his 
Park  form,  that  when  he  alighted,  his  former  correct  position 
was  unchanged. 

Annoyed,  he  brought  in  his  hunter  with  a  vigor  that  almost 
hauled  him  back  over  the  dashboard. 

Standing  at  the  foot  of  an  ivy-covered  elm  was  a  lady. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  began. 

"Oh,  don't  mention  it.  I  was  a  bit  startled  for  a  moment, 
as  you  seemed  to  be  charging  right  down  upon  us,  but  it  was  all 
right  as  soon  as  I  opened  my  parasol  at  your  horse." 

She  glanced  down  at  her  side.  Following  her  eyes,  the  doc- 
tor was  startled  to  see  the  prostrate  figure  of  a  man. 

"What's  the  matter?    Have  you  had  an  accident?" 

"Oh,  hardly  that — my  father  and  I  were  driving,  and  as 
we  went  over  this  rut  the  hind  axle  broke  and  let  us  down. 
Father  was  thrown  against  that  tree." 

"I  should  be  inclined  to  call  that  an  accident.  Is  your  father 
hurt?"  Dr.  Wentworth  leaped  to  the  ground  and  tied  his  horse 
to  a  sapling. 

"He  is  not  hurt"  said  the  girl.  "You  are  very  kind,  but  we 
do  not  need  any  assistance.    I  have  sent  a  farmer-boy  for  a  trap." 

The  doctor  walked  over  to  the  prostrate  man,  who  was 
spare  and  gray  and  elderly;  he  was  lying  on  his  back  and  hi= 
face  was  ashen. 

The  man  emitted  a  quavering  groan.  "There  is  no  such 
thing  as  pain,"  he  gasped  brokenly. 

A  horrible  suspicion  threw  a  light  into  Wentworth's  mind. 

"Just  at  your  ill-timed  arrival,"  said  the  girl,  "I  had  sue- 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  39.  81 

ceeded  in  convincing  my  father  that  his  condition  was  perfectly 
normal." 

Wentworth  turned  to  her. 

"If  his  normal  condition  consists  of  a  smashed  collar-bone 
and  an  arm  broken  in  two  places,  with  incidentally  a  sprained 
ankle  thrown  in,  your  idea  is  fairly  accurate.  Personally  I  have 
my  doubts." 

"I  think,"  she  remarked,  "that  if,  instead  of  referring  to 
an  entirely  mythical  power  of  evil,  we  were  to  unite  in  prayer, 
it  would  prove  of  the  greatest  benefit  to  my  poor  suff — misguided 
father." 

Wentworth  stared  at  her.  He  caught  sight  of  a  country 
buggy  ditched  a  few  rods  down  the  road. 

"Is  that  your  buggy?" 

"Yes." 

"Suppose  you  go  and  pray  over  it,  while  I  am  putting  a 
splint  on  your  father's  arm.  You  might  get  it  to  knit  by  the 
time  I  got  through.  There's  no  reason  why  it  shouldn't  work 
just  as  well  on  the  axle  as  on  a  bone!" 

"Will  you  kindly  leave  us?" 

"No;    I  won't." 

For  a  moment  the  girl  glared  at  him  with  such  a  vindictive 
look  that  he  thought  she  was  going  to  strike  him.  A  groan  came 
from  the  prostrate  man,  and  at  the  sound  she  suddenly  burst 
into  a  wild  storm  of  tears. 

Wentworth  hesitated;  then,  whipping  out  his  heavy  clasp- 
knife,  split  a  small  sapling  and  cut  three  splints.  Kneeling  by 
the  father,  he  gently  loosed  his  collar  and  cravat  and,  with  the 
aid  of  his  handkerchief,  proceeded  to  immobilize  the  fractured 
arm. 

"Go  over  and  look  under  the  seat  of  my  cart  and  you  will 
find  a  flask  in  the  pocket  of  my  overcoat,"  he  said  to  the  girl ; 
"mix  a  little  brandy  and  water  in  the  cover  and  give  him  a  drink. 
His  pulse  is  very  bad!" 

Theie  was  a  moment's  pause;  then  his  order  was  obeyed. 


82  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Together  they  gave  the  sufferer  to  drink,  and  Wentworth 
noticed  a  feeble  but  gratified  smack  as  the  last  swallow  passed 
his  lips.  A  faint  color  crept  into  the  pallid  cheeks,  and,  as  he 
met  Wentworth's  look,  there  was  just  the  suspicion  of  a  flicker 
in  the  upper  lid  of  the  left  eye.  "Do  you  happen  to  have  any 
more  of  that  stimulant,  doctor?"  he  asked.  "It  seems  to  strengthen 
my  faith." 

"Certainly,"  said  Wentworth.  He  turned  to  the  daughter. 
"Give  him  another  drin — er — that  is,  let  us  repeat  the  stimulant." 
The  girl  obeyed  in  ominous  calm.  As  she  was  filling  the  flask- 
cover  the  rattle  of  wheels  suddenly  broke  in  upon  them.  A  smart 
two-seated  buckboard  drawn  by  a  pair  of  heavy  grays  came  in 
sight.  On  the  back  seat  were  two  elderly  ladies.  Suddenly  one 
of  them  leaned  forward. 

"Why,  Honoria!"  she  called,  "what  are  you  doing  here? 
Where  is  your  father?  What  is  that  you  have  in  your  hand?  A 
flask?     Whatever  has  happened?" 

"Father  is  up  there  in  the  bushes.  We  broke  down  and 
were  thrown  out." 

The  lady  descended  hastily.  At  sight  of  the  doctor  she 
paused,  then  her  piercing  eye  swept  the  recumbent  figure  of  her 
husband. 

"Honoria!    who  is  this  person?" 

"My  name  is  Livingston  Wentworth,  madame.  I  am  a  sur- 
geon, and  as  I  was  driving  past " 

"A  surgeon ! — and  you  have  dared  to  swathe  my  husband's 
free  limbs  in  your  odious  sticks  and  rubbish?  Remove  them  at 
once,  sir !  Eliphalet,  I  am  amazed  at  you !  Get  on  your  feet  at 
once.,  sir !" 

"Pardon  me,  madame,  but  I  am  afraid  you  do  not  under- 
stand. Your  husband's  arm  and  collar-bone  are  broken,  and  he 
is  suffering " 

"Remove  those  bandages  at  once,  sir !" 

"I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  tell  you  the  man  is  all 
smashed  up." 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  jg.  83 

The  lady  turned  to  the  coachman. 

"Johnson,  come  here  this  minute." 

"Beggin'  your  pardon,  ma'am,  I  daren't  leave  the  'osses, 
J  ma'am."     The  grays  were  dozing  apathetically. 

"Come  here   at  once!" 

The  coachman  reluctantly  descended. 

"Remove  this  person !" 

The  coachman  approached  with  misgiving. 

"You  wouldn't  'ave  me  lay  'ands  on  a  gentleman,  ma'am!" 

The  doctor  smiled  wickedly. 

"Johnson,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  pain,  but  if  you  attempt 
to  interfere  with  me  or  my  patient  you  will  need  a  course  of 
:  absent  treatment  for  the  next  six  weeks  before  you  are  fit  for 
i  service  again." 

"T  think  the  'osses  are  going  to  start,  ma'am,"  said  the 
perturbed  coachman,  springing  to  the  heads  of  the  dozing  grays. 

There  was  a  somewhat  embarrassing  pause ;  then  Honoria 
said  quietly: 

Mamma,  the  doctor  is  right !  I  think  that  we  had  better 
move  papa  just  as  he  is  without  disturbing  the  dressings " 

"Yes,  yes,  Patience,"  exclaimed  the  prostrate  Eliphalet. 
"Get  me  home  and  a-bed;  then,  after  the — er — anatomical  rela- 
tions are  properly — er — adjusted,  you  may  treat  me  according 
to  your  own  excellent  methods.  At  present  I  am  in  a  great  deal 
of — er— -excitement,  and  do  not  feel  equal  to  any  more — er — 
manipulations!" 

The  doctor  bowed. 

"Johnson,"  he  called,  "come  here  and  help  me  to  put  your 
master  in  the  carriage." 

A  modest  cough  from  the  ground  drew  his  attention.  Look- 
ing at  the  injured  man,  he  thought  that  he  caught  once  more 
that  aimost  imperceptible  flutter  of  the  eyelid.  He  turned  boldly 
to  the  wife  and  mother. 

"Madame,  since  you  have  so  considerately  permitted  my 
profane  system  of  treatment  to  prevail  in  the  present  case,  I 


84  WERNER'S  READINGS 

will  carry  it  out  further,  to  the  extent  of  prescribing  for  the 
patient  a  dose  of  the  orthodox  stimulant  before  he  is  moved." 
He  turned  to  the  girl.     "Will  you  kindly  hand  me  my  flask?" 

In  an  aggrieved  silence  a  heroic  dose  of  the  medicine  indi- 
cated was  poured  out  and  given  to  the  patient,  who  received  it 
with  sad  but  unprotesting  fortitude.  This  done,  the  unfortunate 
Eliphalet  was  tenderly  bestowed  in  the  carriage. 

"Honoria,"   commanded  the  mother,  "get  in   front." 

The  doctor  made  a  dissenting  gesture. 

"It  would  not  be  safe.  Johnson  would  be  too  crowded  to 
have  perfect  control  of  his  horses.  If  you  will  permit  me," 
turning  to  the  girl,  "it  will  give  me  great  pleasure  to  drive  you 

home  in  my  cart." 

******* 

Six  weeks  later  a  high  English  dog-cart  was  bowling  along 
through  the  woods.  Suddenly  the  horse  shied  violently,  throw- 
ing Honoria  almost  into  the  doctor's  arms. 

"Intelligent  animal !"  commented  the  doctor.  "He  always 
shies  here.  He  remembers  how  you  startled  him  the  dav  we 
first  met." 

"Ah,  yes,"  murmured  the  girl  softly ;  "I  shall  never  for- 
get  " 

"What?" 

"How  funny  you  looked  holding  the  reins  and  sailing  through 
the  air  so  gracefully." 

The   doctor   surveyed   her  with   dignified   reproach. 

"Oh,  I  say — Miss  Hampton — oh,  by  George — "  the  doctor 
groaned.  Then  he  slid  one  arm  along  the  back  of  the  seat.  The 
intelligent  hunter  slowed  into  a  walk. 

The  girl  turned  to  him  suddenly.  Her  face  was  red  with 
laughter. 

"Don't  take  it  so  to  heart,  Doctor  Wentworth ;  but  every 
once  in  a  while,  when  I  think  of  how  you  looked •" 

"Darling!" 

"You  are  insolent!" 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  jg.  85 

"You  are  an  angel !" 

"Turn  around  this  minute  and  take  me  home!" 

The  doctor  gathered  up  the  reins. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  speaking  to  me  as  you  did  just  now?" 

"Do  you  really  want  to  know?" 

She  shot  a  glance  at  him  under  her  long  lashes. 

The  doctor  dropped  his  voice — and  the  maiden  dropped  her 
head — and  the  next  moment  the  intelligent  but  misguided  hunter 
started  suddenly,  for  his  patrician  pointed  ears  had  caught  a 
familiar  sound. 

"But  you  are  still  a  Philistine,"  she  pleaded. 

"No,  dear;  I  am  a  convert.  There  is  no  such  thing  as 
pain!" 


THE   COWBOY. 


James  Barton  Adams. 


THE  bawl  of  a  steer  to  the  cowboy's  ear 
Is  music  of  sweetest  strain, 
And  the  yelping  notes  of  the  gray  coyotes 

To  him  are  a  glad  refrain ; 
The  rapid  beat  of  his  bronco's  feet 

On  the  sod  as  he  speeds  along 
Keep  'livening  time  to  the  ringing  rhyme 

Of  his  rollicking  cowboy  song. 
His  eyes  are  bright  and  his  heart  is  light, 

As  the  smoke  of  his  cigarette, 
There's  never  a  care,  for  his  soul  to  bear, 

No  troubles  to  make  him  fret ; 
For  a  kingly  crown  in  the  noisy  town 

His  saddle  he  wouldn't  change — 
No  life  so  free  as  the  life  we  see 

'Way  out  on  the  cattle-range. 


86  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Hi-lo !  hi-la !  for  the  range  away 

On  the  deck  of  a  bronc'  of  steel, 
With  a  careless  flirt  of  the  rawhide  quirt 

And  a  dig  of  the  rowelled  heel. 
And  the  winds  may  howl  and  the  thunders  growl, 

Or  the  breezes  may  softly  moan, 
A  rider's  life  is  a  royal  life, 

The  saddle  a  kingly  throne. 
Hi-lo !    hi-la !    for  the  work  is  play 

When  love's  in  the  cowboy's  eyes, 
When  his  heart  is  light  as  the  clouds  of  white 

That  swim  in  the  summer  skies, 
And  his  jolly  song  speeds  the  hours  along 

As  he  thinks  of  the  little  gal 
With  the  golden  hair  who  is  waiting  there 

At  the  bars  of  the  home  corral. 


A  VILLAGE    MYSTERY. 


J.  L.  Harbour. 


[From  Youth's  Companion.    By  permission  of  the  publishers.] 

NEWCOMERS  had  moved  into  the  old  Haycroft  place. 
"It  ain't  natural  for  folks  to  keep  so  much  to  themselves," 
Nancy  Baker  complained  to  Amanda  Dawkins.  "But  these  folks — 
my  land ! — they're  as  close  as  clams !     I've  asked  the  milkman 
and  the  groceryman,  and  they  didn't  know  who  they  were,  either. 
They  pay  cash  for  things,  and  just  order  them  sent  to  the  Hay- 
croft place.     I  think  it  looks  kind  -of  suspicious,  don't  you  ?" 
"Haven't  you  called  yet?"  asked  Amanda. 
"Yes ;  but  a  tall,  black-eyed,  black-whiskered  man  came  to  the 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  39.  87 

door ;  and,  when  I  asked  for  the  ladies,  he  said  they'd  gone  out 
for  a  walk;  and  he  never  said,  'Call  again,'  or  'Come  in.'  " 

"How  much  of  the  family  is  there?" 

"Well,  there's  this  man,  and  a  woman  about  the  same  age. 
Then  there's  three  girls,  anywhere  from  eighteen  to  twenty- 
three,  and  two  young  men.  There's  no  family  resemblance  among 
era,  and  they  don't  act  like  brothers  and  sisters.  You  mark  my 
words,  there's  some  mystery  about  that  family." 

Two  days  later  she  appeared  at  Amanda's  door  in  a  state 
of  great  excitement. 

"There's  something  wrong  in  the  Haycroft  house.  They 
have  got  crazy  people  there,  and  last  night  that  black-eyed  man 
was  beating  them !  I  could  hear  him  yelling  and  using  dreadful 
language  clear  over  to  my  house !  First  they'd  laugh,  and  then 
they'd  yell  and  screech  and  then  they'd  moan  and  cry !  And  once 
one  of  the  women  screeched  out,  'Help  !  Help  !'  I  want  you  to 
come  and  spend  the  day  with  me.  I'm  scared  to  death  to  stay 
alone.  Then,  your  husband  is  constable,  and  it'll  be  his  place  to 
make  arrests." 

Thus  urged,  Amanda  Dawkins  went  home  with  Nancy. 

There  were  no  unusual  sounds  for  an  hour  after  they 
arrived.  Then  Nancy's  sallow  face  suddenly  paled,  "Hark !  Hear 
that,  will  you ?    Ain't  it  awful?" 

A  man's  voice,  deep  and  harsh,  growled  out,  "I  will  be 
obeyed !     Have  a  care  how  you  defy  me!" 

"I  do  defy  you !"  was  the  woman's  answer. 

"Have  a  care !" 

"Do  you  think  I  fear  you  ?     Touch  me  at  your  peril !" 

Then  the  terrified  listeners  heard  a  scream  and  the  sound 
of  a  heavy  fall. 

"Ain't  it  terrible?"  gasped  Nancy. 

Fully  agreed  that  something  must  be  done,  the  women  fled 
to  the  village  and  gave  the  alarm.  Half  an  hour  later  they 
returned  with  Hiram  Dawkins,  the  town  constable,  and  several 
able-bodied   men  armed  to  the  teeth   with   long-unused   pistols, 


83  WERNER'S  READINGS 

clubs,  butcher-knives  and  muskets.  The  men  marched  up  to  the 
Haycroft  house.  Hiram  rapped,  and  the  tall,  dark-eyed  man 
opened  the  door. 

"I  arrest  you  in  the  name  of  the  law !"  said  Hiram. 

"Suppose  you  tell  me  what  this  means." 

"It  means  that  there  have  been  mighty  suspicious  goings-on 
in  this  house." 

One  of  the  young  men  began  to  laugh. 

"I  knew  it,  professor;  I  told  you  we'd  have  the  police 
after  us." 

"They  own  up!"  exclaimed  Nancy  with  uplifted  hands,  and 
Hiram  was  about  to  step  forward  with  a  pair  of  handcuffs, 
when  the  gentleman  said : 

"Just  one  moment,  please.  I  suppose  we  owe  you  some  ex- 
planation, and  I  will  tell  you  that  my  wife  and  I  are  teachers 
of  elocution  in  the  city,  and  these  young  people  are  my  pupils  who 
wish  to  continue  their  work  during  the  summer  vacation.  You 
probably  heard  us  amusing  ourselves  by  giving  a  little  burlesque 
of  a  sensational  play." 

Hiram  Dawkins  was  slow  to  grasp  the  idea,  but  when  all 
the  inmates  of  the  house  presented  themselves  in  a  smiling  mood, 
he  began  to  understand  what  a  summer  school  of  elocution 
might  be. 


DROVE   HIM   MAD. 


They  took  him  to  the  sanitarium  moaning  feebly:  "Thirty- 
nine,  thirty-nine." 

"What  does  he  mean  by  that?"  the  attendant  inquired. 

"It's  the  number  of  buttons  on  the  back  of  his  wife's  new 
frock,"   the   family   doctor   explained. 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  jg.  89 

TRAMP  MUSICIAN. 


Wm.  Grant  Brooks. 


[The  household  goods  of  a  ruined  millionaire  were  being  sold  at  auction  and  a  fashionable 
assembly  of  bidders  were  present.  The  auctioneer  came  to  a  handsome  piano,  and,  as  he 
opened  it,  he  observed  that  the  maker's  catalogue  price  for  the  instrument  was  fourteen 
hundred  dollars.  Then  he  invited  any  one  present  to  try  the  instrument,  so  that  all  might 
hear  its  tone.] 

[Music  may  be  introduced  in  the  fifth  stanza,  continuing  throughout  poem  to  last  stanza.] 

"X  TOW,  here's  a  grand  piano! 

i-   *        Its  action  is  complete; 
No  blemish  mars  its  polished  case, 

Its  tone  is  pure  and  sweet. 
Before  I  sell  the  instrument 

Will  some  one  volunteer 
To  try  it,  so  all  present 

Its  silvery  voice  may  hear  ? 

"Come,  try  it,"  said  the  auctioneer; 

"I'll  wait  a  moment  more." 
At  this  second  invitation 

There's  a  stir  out  by  the  door, 
And  then  a  man  advances. 

See  his  pale  and  haggard  face! 
Amid  that  grand  assembly 

He  seemed  strangely  out  of  place. 

Upon  his  thin,  worn  features 

Dissipation's  seal  is  set, 
And  a  hungry,  wild  expression 

Is  seen  in  his  eyes  of  jet. 
His  clothes  are  soiled  and  ragged, 

His  hair  uncombed  and  long: 
Yet  on  he  goes — unmindful 

Of  the  rich  and  well-dressed  throng. 


90  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Straight  up  to  the  piano — 

He  seemed  a  specter  from  the  tomb — 
A  murmur  of  astonishment 

Is  heard  around  the  room; 
At  last,  the  whole  assembly, 

With  taunting  jeer  and  shout, 
Rush  forward,  madly  crying, 

"Let's  put  the  vagrant  out!" 

He  hesitates  one  moment, 

Then  his  fingers  touch  the  keys; 
A  few  soft  notes,  whose  power  sets 

The  maddened  throng  at  ease. 
Then  a  sudden  burst  of  melody 

And  the  throng  spoke  not  a  word, 
Beethoven's  grandest  music 

Thrilled  the  souls  of  all  who  heard. 

The  piano  was  almost  speaking, 

And  a  voice  from  heaven  above 
Seemed  talking,  through  its  trembling  strings, 

And  telling  earth  of  love ; 
The  lofty  strains  are  ended, 

But  the  music  does  not  cease; 
For  melody  follows  melody, 

Like  a  river  of  endless  peace. 

Listen!  he  is  improvising! 

The  throng  with  wonder  look, 
As  tones  full  of  joy  and  sunshine 

Flow  on  like  a  laughing  brook; 
Breathlessly  they  listen 

To  each  melodious  strain, 
Now  like  the  warble  of  singing  birds, 

Now  like  the  pattering  rain. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  M.'  »1 

| 
The  sunlight  seems  to  disappear, 

And  night  envelops  day; 
As  slowly  a  touch  of  sadness 

Creeps  into  the  melody. 
"The  hearts  of  the  throng  are  melted8 

Their  eyes  are  filled  with  tears, 
And  the  past  that  looms  before  them 

Seems  a  life  of  wasted  years. 

And  now  comes  the  sweetest  saddest, 

Grandest  song  'neath  heaven's  dome; 
The  air  seems  sweeter  than  ever : 

'Tis  the  melody,  "Home,  Sweet  Home." 
Slower  and  softer  the  music, 

Like  the  wind  through  treetops  sighing, 
Till  the  faintest  murmur  lingers,  , 

As  a  soul  that's  sinking — dying. 

Now  the  music  ceases; 

The  last  note  dies  away, 
And  falling  across  the  keyboard, 

All  motionless  he  lay; 
The  auctioneer  touched  his  shoulder, 

But  the  vagabond's  life  was  done ; 
With  the  dying  notes  of  "Home,  Sweet  Home" 

His  immortal  life  begun. 


NATIONAL   DIFFERENCES. 


THE  Frenchman  loves  his  native  wine  ;  the  German  loves  his 
beer ; 
The  Englishman  loves  his  'alf  and  'alf,  because  it  brings  good 

cheer. 
The  Irishman  loves  his  "whisky  straight,"  because  it  gives  him 

dizziness. 
The  American  has  no  choice  at  all,  so  he  drinks  the  whole  d — 
business. 


92  WERNER'S  READINGS 

NIGHT    RUN    OF   THE  "OVERLAND." 


Elmore  Elliott  Peake. 


IT  snowed.  The  switch-lamps  at  Valley  Junction  twinkled 
faintly  through  the  swirling  flakes.  A  broad  band  of  light 
from  the  night  operator's  room  shot  out  into  the  gloom.  Aside 
from  this,  the  scattered  houses  of  the  little  hamlet  slept  in  dark- 
ness— all  but  one. 

Through  the  drawn  curtains  of  a  cottage  a  hundred  yards  from 
the  station,  a  light  shone  dully ;  inside,  a  young  woman  sat  be- 
side a  sick-bed.  On  the  bed  lay  a  young  man.  "What  are  you 
thinking  of,  dear?"  she  asked. 

"Of  you,  comparing  your  life  in  this  wretched  place,  Sylvia, 
with  what  it  was  before  I  married  you;  and  thinking  of  that 
wonderful  thing  called  'love,'  which  can  make  you  content  with 
the  change." 

"Not  content,  but  happy !  Papa  will  forgive  us  some  day. 
Just  give  him  time.  Some  day  you'll  let  me  write  to  him,  and 
tell  him  where  we  are,  and  he'll  write  back,  and  say,  'Come  home, 
children,  and  be  forgiven.'  But  whether  he  does  or  not,  I  would 
sooner  flutter  about  this  little  dovecote  of  ours,  and  ride  on  the 
engine  with  you,  than  be  mistress  of  the  finest  palace  papa's 
money  can  build." 

For  a  moment  the  pair  looked  the  love  they  could  not  speak ; 
the  spell  was  broken  by  the  distant  scream  of  a  locomotive. 
Sylvia  glanced  at  the  clock. 

"There's  the  'Overland,'  she's  three  minutes  late.  The  wind 
is  dead  against  her." 

They  listened  in  silence  to  the  dull  roar  of  the  oncoming  train. 
A  moment  later  they  heard  the  grinding  of  brake-shoes.  At 
this  unexampled  occurrence,  the  sick  man  threw  his  wife  a 
startled  glance.  There  came  a  quick,  imperative  rap  at  the  door ; 
Sylvia  flung  it  wide,  revealing  two  men,  the  foremost  of  whom 
she  recognized  as  the  night  operator  at  the  Junction. 

"Mrs.  Fox,  this  is  the  general  superintendent,  Mr. — " 


I 

AND  REC1TA  TIONS  NO.  39.  93 

• 

"My  name  is  Howard,  madam,"  said  the  official ;  "we  are  in 
trouble;  our  engineer  had  a  stroke  of  apoplexy  fifteen  miles 
back,  and  I  want  your  husband  to  take  this  train.  I  know  he's 
•sick,  but — "  p 

"He's  too  sick  t,o  hold  his  head  .up,  sir." 

"I  hate  to  ask  a  sick  man  to  get  out  of  bed  and  pull  a  train, 

I  but  we're  tied  up  here  hard  and  fast,  with  not  another  engineer 

in  sight ;  and  every  minute  that  train  stands  there  the  company 

loses  a  thousand  dollars.     If  you  can  pull  her  through  to  Stock- 

'  ton,  and  will,  it  will  be  the  best  two  hours'  work  you  ever  did. 

I  will  give  you  five  hundred  dollars." 

Fox  rose  to  his  elbow,  but  sank  back,  dizzy  and  trembling 
from  weakness. 

"I  can't  do  it,  Mr.  Howard!  If  I  weren't  too  dizzy  to  hold 
1  my  head  up —  "    Then  he  fixed  his  excited  eyes  upon  his  wife. 

"She'll  take  the  train,  sir !  and  she'll  take  it  through  safe. 
She  knows  an  engine  as  well  as  I,  and  every  inch  of  the  road. 
!  Sylvia,  you  must  go.     It  is  your  duty.'/ 

The  superintendent  gasped  and  stared  at  the  young  woman. 
For  a  moment  she  stood  with  her  dilated  eyes  fastened  upon  her 
husband,  then  said:  "I  will  go,  but  some  one  must  stay  with 
him." 

Whatever  doubts  the  superintendent  may  have  harbored  of 
the  fair  engineer's  nerve  and  skill,  they  were  plainly  removed 
when  Sylvia  returned  from  an  inner  room,  after  an  absence  of 
scarcely  sixty  seconds.  An  indomitable  courage  was  stamped 
upon  her  face.  Without  hesitation,  she  stepped  to  the  bedside 
and  kissed  her  husband  good-bye. 

"Be  brave,  girl!  You  have  got  to  make  seventy-five  miles 
an  hour  or  better ;  but  you've  got  the  machine  to  do  it  with.  Give 
her  her  head  on  all  the  grades  except  Four-Mile  Creek — don't  be 
afraid ! — and  give  her  a  little  sand  on  Beechtree  Hill.  Good-bye 
• — and  God  keep  you  !" 

As  Sylvia  stood  beneath  the  great  black  hulk  of  iron  and  steel 


94  WERNER'S  READINGS 

which  drew  the  "Overland"  and  glanced  down  the  long  line  of 
mail,  express  and  sleeping-cars  her  heart  almost  failed  her. 

"You  are  a  brave  little  woman,"  she  heard  the  superintend- 
ent saying.  "Don't  lose  your  nerve — but  make  time  whatever 
else  you  do.  Every  minute  you  make  up  is  money  in  the  com- 
pany's pocket,  and  they  won't  forget  it.  Besides,  we've  got  a  'big 
gun'  aboard,  and  I  want  to  show  him  that  a  little  thing  like  this 
don't  flustrate  us  any.  If  you  draw  into  Stockton  on  time,  I'll 
add  five  hundred  dollars  to  that  check!"  And  he  lifted  her  up 
to  the  cab. 

The  fireman  stared  at  Sylvia  as  she  stepped  into  the  cab 
as  though  she  were  a  banshee ;  but  she  made  no  explanation, 
and,  after  a  glance  at  the  steam  and  the  water-gauges,  climbed 
up  to  the  engineer's  seat. 

The  locomotive  responded  to  her  touch  with  an  alacrity 
which  seemed  almost  human.  She  glanced  at  the  time-table. 
They  were  twelve  minutes  behind  time.  She  threw  the  throttle 
wide  open,  and  pushed  the  reverse-lever  into  the  last  notch.  The 
great  machine  seemed  suddenly  animated  with  a  demoniac  energy. 
It  seemed  to  strain  every  nerve  to  do  her  bidding,  and  whirled 
them  faster  and  faster.  Yet,  as  they  flashed  through  Grafton., 
they  were  still  ten  minutes  behind  time.  Sylvia  shut  her  lips 
tightly.  If  it  was  necessary  to  defy  death  on  the  curves  and 
grades  ahead,  defy  death  she  would. 

One  third  of  the  one  hundred  and  forty-nine  miles  was 
now  gone,  and  still  the  "Overland"  was  ten  minutes  behind  time, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  no  human  power  could  make  it  up.  They 
were  winding  through  the  Tallahula  Hills,  where  the  road  was 
as  crooked  as  a  serpent's  trail.  The  engine  jerked  viciously  from 
side  to  side,(as  if  resenting  the  piti1ess  goading  from  behind, 
yet  Sylvia  dared  not  slacken  speed.  The  cry  of  "Time!  Time! 
Time!"  was  dinned  into  her  ears  with  every  stroke  of  the  piston. 
C In  spite  of  the  half  pipe  of  sand  which  she  let  run  as  they 
climfjed  Beechtree  Hill — the  last  of  the  Tallahulas — it  seemed  to 
Sylvia  as  if  they  would  never  reach  the  summit.  At  last  the 
high  level  of  the  Barren  Plains  was  gained,  and  for  forty  miles 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  jg.  95 

they  swept  along  smoothly  and  almost  noiselessly  in  the  deaden- 
ing snow. 

Yet,  when  Sylvia  glanced  from  the  time-table  to  the  clock, 
-  as  they  clicked  over  the  switch-points  of  Melrose  with  a  force 
which  seemed  sufficient  to  snap  them  off  like  icicles,*)  she  was  cha- 
grined to  discover  that  they  were  still  eight  minutes  behind. 
They  were  now  approaching  the  long  twelve-mile  descent  of 
Four-Mile  Creek,  with  a  beautiful  level  stretch  at  the  bottom. 
Sylvia  came  to  a  grim  determination. 

"I  am  going  to  let  her  have  her  head  !"  she  cried  out. 

The  fireman  did  not  answer ;  and,  setting  her  teeth,  she  as- 
sumed the  burden  alone.  The  ponderous  locomotive  fell  over 
the  brow  of  the  hill,  with  her  throttle  agape,  and  the  fire  seething 
in  her  vitals.  The  long  heavy  train,  sweeping  down  the  sharp  de- 
scent might  have  been  likened  to  some  winged  dragon  flying  low 
to  earth,  so  appallingly  flightlike  was  the  motion. 

All  Sylvia's  familiar  methods  of  gauging  speed  were  now  at 
fault,  but  she  believed  that  they  were  running  two  miles  to  every 
minute. 

Half-way  doAvn  the  grade  the  train  struck  a  slight  curve. 
The  locomotive  shied  like  a  frightened  steed,  and  shook  in  every 
iron  muscle.  For  a  moment  the  startled  girl  was  sure  they  were 
upon  the  ties. 

But  it  was  only  the  terrible  momentum  lifting  them  from  the 
track,  and  in  a  few  seconds  the  fire-eating  behemoth  righted 
itself. 

The  young  fireman,  who  up  to  this  time  had  maintained 
a  stoical  calm,  suddenly  sprang  to  the  floor  of  the  cab,  with  a  face 
torn  by   fear. 

"What  if  she  leaves  the  rails !"  he  cried  out. 

But  instantly  recovering  himself,  sprang  back  to  his  seat,  with 
the  blood  of  shame  on  his  cheeks. 

"Am  I  running  too  fast?" 

"Not  when  we're  behind  time!"  he  shouted  back. 

As  the  track  became  smoother,  the  engine  grew  calmer ; 
but  its  bared  tongue  licked  up  the  flying  space  for  many  a  mile 


96  WERNER'S  READINGS 

before  the  momentum  of  that  perilous  descent  was  lost.  As  the 
roar  of  their  passage  over  the  long  bridge  spanning  the 
Mattetunk,  twenty  miles  from  Stockton,  died  away,  the  fireman 
called  out  cheerily: 

"On  time,  madam !" 

His  voice  reached  Sylvia's  swimming  ears  faint  and  distant 
as  she  nodded  dizzily  on  her  seat,  bracing  herself  against  the 
reverse  lever. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  general  superintendent's  private  car,  a 
party  of  men  sat  smoking.  One  member  of  this  party  was 
the  "big  gun"  mentioned  to  Sylvia  by  the  general  superintendent 
- — the  president  of  the  Mississippi  Valley,  Omaha,  and  Western 
Railway. 

Mr.  Howard,  the  general  superintendent,  was  regaling  the 
party  with  an  account  of  his  experience  in  securing  a  substitute 
engineer  at  Valley  Junction.  He  suppressed  the  sex  of  the 
engine-runner,  but  he  gave  a  most  dramatic  account  of  the  hero- 
ism of  the  sick  man,  whom  he  unblushingly  represented  as  having 
risen  from  his  bed  to  take  charge  of  the  engine. 

Mr.  Staniford,  the  distinguished  guest,  listened  quietly. 

"Charlie,  you  are  a  heartless  wretch,"  he  said.  "If  it  had 
been  on  my  road,  I  should  have  held  the  train  all  night  rather 
than  drag  a  sick  man  from  his  bed." 

rWe  all  know  how  many  trains  are  held  all  night  on  your 
road,  Staniford;  these  engineers  are  a  heroic  set,  and  I'll  do  this 
one  justice,"  answered  Howards 

The  party  dropped  off  to  bed,  one  by  one. 

The  general  superintendent  himself  finally  rose  and  made 
his  way  forward. 

Three  cars  ahead  he  met  the  conductor,  who  seemed  nervous, 
and  they  talked  together  for  some  moments.  The  train  was 
snapping  around  the  choppy  curves  in  the  Tallahula  Hills  like 
the  lash  of  a  whip,  and  the  two  men  had  difficulty  in  keeping 
their  feet. 

"Fast,  but  not  too  fast,  Dackins,"  observed  the  superintend- 
ent. 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  jg.  87 

"What  I  call  a  high  safety,"  answered  the  conductor. 

"But  fearful  in  the  cab,  eh?" 

"Nothing  equal  to  it,  sir." 

When  he  got  back  to  his  car,  he  found  Mr.  Staniford 
still  up. 

"Confound  you,  Charlie,"  said  the  big  man.  "You've  got  that 
sick  engineer  on  my  heart  with  your  inflammatory  descriptions, 
for  which  you  probably  drew  largely  on  your  imagination.  I  have 
been  sitting  here  thinking  about  him.  Confess,  now,  that  you 
exaggerated  matters  a  little." 

"Well,  I  did,  in  one  respect ;  but  in  another  I  fell  short.  Stan- 
iford,  I've  got  the  best  railroad  story  to  give  the  papers  that  has 
been  brought  out  in  years;  and  if  I  don't  get  several  thousand 
dollars'  worth  of  free  advertising  out  of  it,  my  name  isn't 
C.  W.  Howard.     The  best  of  it  is,  it's  the  gospel  truth." 

"Let's  have  it." 

"Well,  between  you  and  me,  that  man  Fox  was  a  mighty 
sick  man " 

"Fox,  did  you  say?    What's  his  first  name?" 

"I  don't  know.  What  do  you  know  about  him?  He's  a 
comparatively  new  man  with  us." 

The  old  man's  fingers  trembled  as  he  flicked  the  ashes  from 
his  cigar.     "I  don't  know  that  I  know  him.     Go  on." 

"Ever  run  on  your  road?" 

"Yes,  yes ;  but  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.     Go  on." 

"Well,  he  was  altogether  too  sick  to  pull  a  plug.  But  it 
seems  that  his  wife  has  been  in  the  habit  of  riding  with  him, 
and  knows  the  road  and  engine  as  well  as  he  does.  And  this  is 
my  story,  which  I  didn't  tell  to  the  boys  'for  the  sake  of  their 
nerves, — the  'Overland'  at  this  moment  is  in  the  hands  of  a  girl, 
sir,  Fox's  wife !" 

Staniford  took  the  others  handy  and  held  it  in  an  iron  grip. 
"Charlie,  it's  my  own  little  baby  girl !" 

When  the  "Overland"  slowed  up  at  Stockton,  twenty 
seconds  ahead  of  time,   Mr.   Staniford  rushed  to  the  front,  and 


98  WERNER'S  READINGS 

as  Sylvia  stepped  down  from  the  engine,  caught  her  in  his  arms, 
while  the  crowd  of  railroad  men  who  knew  her  and  how  she  had 
eloped  with  an  engineer  on  her  father's  road,  took  in  the  situation 
at  a  glance  and  burst  into  yells  of  applause. 


SOIS    LE    BIENVENU,    PIERRE!" 


Manley  H.  Pike. 


W'EN  I  been  p'tit  garcon, 
Sat'day  a'ternoons  I'd  play 
Doun  dere  on  de  Pellinaw 

Wit'  Sophie  St.  Bellinay. 
She  was  wait  me  ev'ry  tarn, 

Smilin'  douce  et  debonnaire, 
Sayin'  a'ways  w'en  I  cam', 
"Sois  le  bienvenu,  Pierre !" 

W'en  I  been  have  premiere  jeunnesse, 

Sunday  nights  I  mak'  visite 
On  Sophie — pe  gar,  I  guess 

I  not  go  pefor'  minnite ! 
A'ways  she  stan'  at  de  door, 

A'ways  she  been  waitin'  dere, 
Sayin'  just  as  once  encore, 

"Sois  le  bienvenu,  Pierre  V 

W'en  I  been  'n  homme  marie 

('Course,  my  femme  she  was  Sophie) 

Growin'  ol'  an'  growin'  gray, 

•.     She  was  meet  me  comme  jadis. 

I  am  tired  laike  I  was  dead — 
Malade,  anxieux — no  mattaire. 

Pouf !    All  gone  jus'  w'en  she  said, 
"Sois  le  bienvenu,  Pierre!" 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  39.  99 

Now  I  am   n  vieux  bonhomme ; 

All  alone — ah,  all  alone ! 
Dieu !     I  wish  I  am,  en  somme, 

Wit'  Sophie  w'ere  she  been  gone. 
Still  she  waits  me,  for  I  know, 

Smilin'  douce  et  debonnaire, 
She  will  say  to  me  la'haut, 

"Sois  le  bienvenu,  Pierre!" 


WHEN  GRANDMA  WAS  A  GIRL. 


Ada  A.  Mosher. 


[Written  expressly  for  this  book.] 

[Enter    croivd    of    little  ones    dressed  in  old-time,  large-figured 
skirts,  caps,  etc.] 

WE'VE  been  rummaging  through  the  garret 
Like  so  many  little  mice; 
In  a  rollicksome  quest 
Through  the  old  cedar  chest, 
We  found  these, — and  don't  they  look  nice? 

[Lift  dress  in  both  hands  and  turn  as  if  showing  it  off.] 

They  were  packed  up  and  pinned — oh,  so  neatly ! 

For  grandma's  particular,  very. 

And  between  you  and  me, 

It  behooves  us  to  be 

Somewhat  quiet-like,  not  to  say  wary. 

[Lift  forefinger  of  right  hand  in   caution.] 


100  WERNER'S  READINGS 

We  thought,  since  it's  raining  outside, 

We'd  have  sunshine  inside,  that  would  be 

The  light  of  old  days 

In  quaint,  quiet  ways, 

When  grandma  was  little  like  we. 

[Give  low,  sweeping  courtesy,  lifting  dress  slightly  as  before.] 

The  way  that  she  worked  and  the  way  that  she  played 
And  the  dear  old  songs  that  she  sung : 
For  grandma  can  start 
And  tell  stories  by  heart 
Forever  of  when  she  was  young. 

Oh,  the  slow,  stately  tread  of  the  grand  minuet! 

Why,  its  sweet  old  music  would  rhyme 

With  the  dear  twilight  stories 

Of  fairyland  glories 

Beginning  with,  "Once  on  a  time." 

[Move  to  places   for  minuet,  in    time    to    music — Dance    to    an 
old  air.] 

Oh,  the  funniest  way  they  did  in  her  day — 

Why,  she  never  went  down  to  the  store 

To  buy  a  new  dress, 

But  would — think  of  it — yes, 

Would  spin  every  dress  that  she  wore ! 

We  know  it  is  true — every  word  we  are  saying; 

We  can  prove  it  by  her,  and  what's  more, 

With  our  own  eyes  we've  seen 

The  queer  sewing-machine 

That  used  to  stand  outside  her  door. 

[Bring  small  chairs  to  front  of  stage,  in  a  semicircle,  then  all  sit.] 


AND  REC1TA  TIONS  NO.  30.  101 

'Neath  the  cool,  spreading  shade  of  an  old  apple-tree 

That  whitened  with  blossoms  the  ground, 

She  would  sit  there  and  spin 

In  and  out,  out  and  in, 

While  the  wheel  went  around  and  around. 

Make  spinning  motion  with  hand  and  foot  to  music  of  Reinecke's 
"Spinning  Song."] 

Oh,  I  wish  you  could  hear  her  own  trembling  voice 

Echo  over  the  strains,  faint  and  far, 

Like  a  ghost  of  the  song 

That  once  rose,  sweet  and  strong, 

To  the  touch  of  her  brown  old  guitar. 

[Sing  "Lorena"  or  some  old  song  to  the  pantomime  of  a  guitar 
accompaniment.  Paper  slipped  under  the  wires  of  the  piano 
imitates  guitar  sound.] 

And  after  the  supper  was  cleared  away, 

And  mamma  was  put  to  bed, 

The  candles  were  lit 

And  grandma  would  sit 

And  this  is  the  way  she  would  kit  and  knit. 

[Knitting  pantomime.] 

Briskly  brisk  would  the  needles  go 

Till  the  old  hall  clock  struck  nine, 

Then  slower  and  slower  and  still  more  slow 

Till  grandma's  head  would  be  nodding  so — 

The  sweet  old  face  in  the  firelight's  glow — 

Dear  sainted  grandma  mine ! 

[Knit  slower  and  slower,  ending  in  nodding  to  music  of  "We're 
A-Noddin'  at  Our  House  at  Home."  At  close,  all  pretend 
to  be  sound  asleep.] 


102  WERNER'S  READINGS 

JEALOUSY   IN   THE   CHOIR. 


SILVERY-NOTED, 
Lily-throated, 
Starry-eyed  and  golden-haired, 
Charming  Anna., 
The  soprano,, 
All  the  singers'  heart!  ensnared. 

Long  the  tenor 

Sought  to  win  her. 
Sought  to  win  her  for  his  bride; 

And   the  basso 

Loved  the  lass  so, 
Day  and  night  for  her  he  sighed. 

The  demeanor 

Of  the  tenor 
To  the  basso  frigid  grew; 

And  the  basso 

As  he  was  so 
Mashed,  of  course,  grew  frightened  too. 

Anna  smiled  on 

Both,  which  piled  on 
To  their  mutual  hatred  fuel; 

So,  to  win  her, 

Bass  and  tenor 
Swore  they'd  fight  a  vocal  duel. 

Shrieked  the  tenor 

Like  a  Vennor 
Cyclone  howling  o'er  the  plain, 

Sang  so  high 

To  outvie 
The  bass,  he  split  his  head  in  twain. 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  jg.  103 

Growled  the  basso 

Till  he  was  so 
Low,  to  hear  him  was  a  treat; 

Lower  still  he 

Went  until  he 
Split  the  soles  of  both  his  feet. 

Charming  Anna, 

Tb^  soprano, 
Mourned  a  week  for  both  her  fellows ; 

Then  she  wed  the 

Man  who  fed  the 
Wind  into  the  organ-bellows. 


TWO   LITTLE   SUNBONNETS. 


Annie  Hamilton  Donnell. 


LVflTH  every  fresh  iron  Mrs.  Davies  made  a  little  detour  out 
W  of  the  straight  return  trip  to  the  ironing-table,  to  make 
ure  that  Comfort  was  all  right.  She  could  see  her  little  pink 
unbonnet  down  the  road.    Comfort  was  making  mud-pies. 

"Bless  her  little  heart!"  murmured  Mrs.  Davies,  tenderly. 

At  the  third  trip  to  the  window  two  little  pink  sunbonnets 
vere  visible.  The  face  of  the  woman  watching  them  clouded 
rver. 

"Bother !"  cried  Mrs.  Davies,  crossly,  "that  Collins  child's 
out  there  again — it  does  make  me  provoked !" 

Mrs.  Davies  always  called  Cynthia's  little  girl  "that  Collins 
bhild"  ever  since  the  trouble  that  had  reared  itself  between  the 
wo  friends  like  an  impenetrable  wall.  Before  the  trouble  she 
lad  always  said  "Hop-o'-my-Thumb,"  as  Cynthia  did.  How  she 
iad  loved  little  sunny- faced  Hop-o'-my-Thumb! 


f' 


itl. 


104  WERNER'S  READINGS 

The  sunbonnets  bobbed  nearer  together  u\..til  they  made  but 
one  spot  of  pink  on  Mrs.  Davies's  nearsighted  retinas. 

"And  she's  got  on  a  sunbonnet  off  the  same  piece  as  Com-jni) 
fort's — the  very  same  identical  piece !  I  might've  known  Cynthy 
Collins  would  go  down  to  the  store  and  get  that  calico;  she 
couldnt  let  it  alone  after  she  saw  Comfort's  sunbonnet.  It's  justjw 
the  same  way  with  dresses — dear  land,  if  that  Collins  child  hasn'l 
got  on  a  buff  dress,  too !  Just  like  Comfort's !  It's  getting  un- 
bearable." 

The  flatiron  pounded  back  and  forth  across  a  snowy  sheet. 

"I  declare  I'd  like  to  be  on  speaking  terms  with  Cynthy  Col 
lins  again  just  long  enough  to  speak  my  mind !     It  would  be  B§ 
dreadful  relief.     I've  the  greatest  mind  to  forbid  Comfort's  ever 
playing  with  that  Collins  child  again  as  long  as  she  lives !" 

But  in  her  heart  Comfort's  mother  knew  she  should  never  dotii 
it.  She  knew  she  could  never  shut  her  ears  to  Comfort's  pleadingihi 
little  voice. 

"I  have  to  play  -with  her,  Mumsie,  'cause  she's  my  snuggest 
friend,"  the  little  voice  would  plead,  and  Comfort's  mother  would 
yield.     Comfort  was  all  she  had  now.     All  the  love  that  belonged^ 
always  to  her  and  the  love  that  had  belonged  to  Comfort's  father 
were  concentrated  upon  that  little  figure  down  the  road,  under  I: 
the  pink  sunbonnet.     The   other  sunbonnet — well,   Cynthia  hadirt 
Cyrus,  and  all  the  other  children,  besides. 

The  long,  hot  morning  crawled  on  toward  the  noon  mark, 
Mrs.  Davies  set  away  her  irons  and  dropped  into  the  rocker  by 
the  window  to  rest. 

"Only  one  sunbonnet — well,  I'm  thankful  that  Collins  child's 
gone  in  at  last;"  she  said.    "It  was  time  for  her  to,  and  the  sooner 
she  gets  that  sunbonnet  of  hers  hung  onto  a  nail  the  better !     I 
never  want  to  see  it  again.     I'm  going  to  rip  Comfort's  up  andjrii 
make  dusters ;  there's  a  plenty  of  my  purple  gingham  left  to  makejm 
another  one,  and  Cynthy  Collins  can't  lay  her  hands  on  any  pur 
pie  gingham  in  this  town." 

Back  from  the  road  the  other  little  pink  sunbonnet  was  nod 
ding  across  a  field  corner,  but  Mrs.  Davies  did  not  see  it.     Her 


Dj 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  39.  105 

es  were  on  the  one  left  behind  in  the  dusty  roadway.  The 
mixing"  for  the  pies  had  given  out,  and  one  little  cook  had  gone 
it  the  brook  for  more. 

Suddenly,  with  a  shrill  cry,  Mrs.  Davies  darted  out  of  the 
or  and  down  the  path  to  the  gate. 

"Comfort !  Comfort !  Quick,  a  team's  coming — get  out  of 
i)|  road!     It's  coming  fa — st!     Comfort!" 

But  the  snug  little  sunbonnet  and  the  mud  pies  interfered 
th  the  transmission  of  the  cry  to  the  child's  ears. 

"Comfort!  dear  Comfort,  run  quick!     Mother's  coming.     O 

_  >> 
n. 

The  little  head  turned,  but  it  was  too  late. 

There  was  one  frightened  shriek,  and  then  the  horses  swept 
.  up  the  road,  and  left  the  crumpled  little  heap  of  buff  and  pink 
hind  among  the  ruined  pies. 

Comfort's  mother  gathered  it  into  her  arms  with  the  cry  of 
wild  creature  when  its  young  is  hurt.     She  fumbled  with  the 
me  crushed  sunbonnet,  and  tried  to  press  it  away  from  the  quiet 
itle  face.     Would  it  never  come  away? 

11  Somewhere  in  the  distance  a  clear,  high  voice  was  calling, 
li.lling  her  out  of  heaven.  "Mumsie,  Mumsie!"  It  was  Com- 
fort's voice. 

Then  the  little  strings  parted,  and  she  looked  down  at  the 
nan,  still  face  on  her  breast.  It  was  not  Comfort's  face.  The 
(oman  cried  out  gladly — she  laughed  with  joy — she  wanted  to 
ing. 

■  Only  a  moment.  The  little  wan  face  pleaded  with  her.  It 
Has  Cynthia's  baby — Cynthia's  little,  sunny  Hop-o'-my-Thumb. 

"Lord  pity  Cynthy!  Lord  pity  Cynthy!"  Comfort's  mother 
Hed  out.  Poor  Cynthy,  would  it  help  any  that  there  were  Cyrus 
s.id  all  the  other  children?     Would  anything  help? 

Comfort  came  across  the  field  corner,  and  trotted,  a  little 
■ightened,  sobbing  figure,  at  her  side.  They  carried  little  Hop- 
-my-Thumb  home  to  Cynthia. 

All  day  and  all  night  the  two  mothers  watched  together,  and 
hen,  with  the  first  faint  flickering  of  the  day   a  tiny  spark  of 


106  WERNER'S  READINGS 

hope  dawned  in  their  hearts  and  grew  steadily  brighter,  Com 
fort's  mother   lifted   little   Hop-o'-my-Thumb   out  of   Cynthia's 
tired  arms,  and  rocked  her  gently,  as  she  rocked  Comfort  at  bed- 
time.   She  crooned  to  her  Comfort's  best-loved  little  lullaby. 

"Cynthy,  Cynthy,  He's  good — the  Lord's  good!"  she  whis- 
pered across  the  small,  rumpled  head. 


A  LOVER   WITHOUT   ARMS. 


Henry  Davenport. 


A  CAPTAIN  went  to  Gettysburg 
And  plunged  into  the  fray, 
And  while  he  led  his  brave  command 
Both  arms  were  shot  away. 

This  captain's  name  was  Peter  Field, 

And  he  was  tall  and  stout; 
But  when  he  found  himself  disarmed 

His  courage  "petered  out." 

Now  Peter,  at  a  country  fair, 
A  fair  young  maid  had  met; 

While  in  the  hospital  he  sat, 
His  heart  on  her  was  set. 

Poor  Peter  mourned  his  sorry  loss, 
Which  nothing  could  replace; 

He  wanted  much  a  brace  of  arms. 
His  maiden  to  embrace. 

While  Peter  Field  was  sorely  maimed, 
And  far  down  in  the  dumps, 

She  took  occasion  to  declare 
She'd  take  him  with  his  stumps. 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  jg.  107 

This  manly  offer  made  him  weep, 

He  was  almost  unmanned; 
He  told  her  she  could  have  his  heart, 

But  couldn't  have  his  hand. 

His  hand  this  maiden  could  not  get, 

For  he  was  incomplete; 
And  so  this  feat  she  did  perform, 

She  took  his  heart  and  feet. 

Some  lovers  say,  "Come  to  my  arms !" 

And  quick  the  maiden  jumps; 
But  Peter  changed  his  phrase  and  said, 

"Come,  darling,  to  my  stumps !" 

Long  time  did  Peter  long  to  wed, 

His  true  and  faithful  mate; 
The  lovers  felt  a  weight  of  woe, 

Because  compelled  to  wait. 

The  captain  had  no  stocks  or  bonds, 

No  horses  and  no  lands; 
And,  without  arms,  he  would  not  take 

A  wife  upon  his  hands. 

For  keeping  books  he  had  a  taste, 

Yet  had  to  shun  the  pen ; 
But  if  a  pension  could  be  had, 

He  would  get  married  then. 

The  pension  came,  the  wedding,  too, 

His  fortunes  to  retrieve; 
"Please  join  your  hands,"  the  parson  said, 

But  Peter  joined  his  sleeve. 

Now  Peter's  joy  is  quite  complete, 

And  peaceful  is  his  life; 
While  marriage  was  a  happy  stroke, 

He  never  strikes  his  wife, 


108  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Bridge— and  its  exponent/ 


Frances  de  Wolfe  Fenwick. 


[Comedy  Monologue  for  a  Woman.] 

[Written  expressly  for  this  book.] 

YES,  bridge  is  perfectly  lovely;  there's  no  use  talking  about 
it;  there's  something  about  bridge  that  just  gets  hold  of 
you ;  I  adore  it,  I  simply  adore  it !  I  could  play  it  day  and  night ,  I 
tell  you.  You  see,  it  is  such  a  deep  game ;  there's  nothing  light  and 
frivolous  about  bridge;  there  is  so  much  science  about  it — you 
don't  mean  to  say  that  it's  my  turn  to  make  it,  do  you?  Why,  of 
course,  so  it  is !  I  did  deal,  didn't  I  ?  Queer  that  I  should  for- 
get, but  you  see  it  is  so  difficult  to  remember  every  little  thing; 
only  the  other  day  I  said  to  my  husband,  "Dick,  if  you  had  as 
much  to  remember  as  I  have,  you  would  forget  things,  too, 
sometimes !"  But  men  are  so  queer ;  he  did  not  seem  to  see  it 
at  all.  He  said — why  of  course,  Mrs.  Smith,  certainly,  I  know 
it's  my  turn;  I  was  just  thinking  what  I  had  better  make  it, 
that's  all.  I  don't  believe  in  doing  things  in  too  great  a  hurry, 
especially  not  a  thing  like  bridge,  which  really  requires  deep 
thinking,  though  some  people  seem  to  think  they  can  just  throw 
down  any  card  on  the  table  and  say  right  away  what  they  make 
it  and — yes,  certainly,  just  in  a  minute!  ...  let  me  see  .  .  . 
we  had  hearts  last  time,  hadn't  we?  Oh,  well,  I  won't  make  it 
hearts,  then — just  a  minute!  One — two — three — oh,  I  wonder! 
— four — five — partner,  I  think  we'll  just  try  it  "no  trumps" — 
not  that  I  have  a  very  good  hand,  you  know,  or  anything  of 
that  sort;  but  just  that  I  think  it  would  be  fun  to  try — you 
won't  mind  losing,  will  you?  I  never  do!  No  trumps,  then! 
Now,  you're  sure  you're  not  going  to  be  cross  if  we  don't  win? 
Because,  you  know,  it  depends  a  lot  on  dummy — but  I  think  it's 
such  good  practice  to  try  "no  trumps"  occasionally — and,  after 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  jg.  109 

all,  you  know,  we're  not  playing  for  money  or  anything  of  that 
sort — and  we  haven't  had  "no  trumps"  this  afternoon,  and  I 
thought  it  would  be  so  nice  for  a  change  and 

Well,  now,  you  might  have  done  worse  by  me,  partner  !  I 
really  feel  quite  obliged  to  you ;  dummy  fits  in  very  nicely  with 
my  hand;  there  was  just  one  suit  I  was  weak  in,  but  I  see  it's  all 
right — I  had  all  the  other  suits,  so  they  didn't  matter  so  much, 
though  I'm  glad  to  see — though  you  mustn't  think  I  had  every- 
thing in  the  other  suits;  I  hadn't  at  all,  but — oh,  she  leads  dia- 
monds, does  she?  Well,  I  think  I  can  put  a  stop  to  that  very 
quickly.  You  didn't  know  I  had  the  king,  did  you,  Mrs.  Brown, 
when  you  led  that  little  diamond  so  confidingly? 

Why,  Mrs.  Green,  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  you've  got  the 
ace?  Why,  what  in  the  world  did  you  lead  from,  Mrs.  Brown? 
Not  that  it's  my  affair  at  all.  I  know  it's  not  my  affair,  but  still ! 
I  never  saw  quite  such  a  funny  lead  as  that  in  all  my  life!  You 
know,  don't  you,  that  one  of  the  rules  of  bridge  is  that  you  must 
lead  from  something,  and,  of  course,  you  are  leading  from  some- 
thing, I  know  that,  but  what  in  the  world  is  it?  It  can't  be 
anything  but  a  knave  or  a  ten  spot  for — how  do  I  know  you're 
not  leading  from  a  queen?     Oh,  well,  I  know!     I  can't  tell  you 

how  I  know,  but  I  knqw really  it  seems  to  me  that  there  is 

a  little  too  much  talking  this  afternoon,  considering  that  this 
is  a  scientific  bridge  club  where 

Ha!  here  we  are.  And  now  you  see  where  the  queen  was, 
don't  you,  Mrs.  Green?  Oh,  when  you  have  played  bridge  as 
long  as  I  have  and  made  as  deep  a  study  of  it,  you  will  know 
better  than  to  return  your  partner's  lead  when  you  see  she  hasn't 
got  anything.  I  gave  you  quite  a  broad  hint,  too,  for  I  never 
believe  in  being  selfish ;  I  always  like  to  help  everybody,  whether 
I  happen  to  be  playing  with  them  or  against  them. 

Oh,  mercy !  how  many  more  of  those  little  diamonds  have 
you,  Mrs.  Brown?  Oh!  another  one?  Oh,  partner,  this  is  just 
dreadful,  isn't  it?  What  shall  we  do?  Another  one?  Oh, 
it  really  seems  to  me  that  there  must  be  some  mistake.  I  am 
sure  there  must  be  more  than  thirteen  diamonds  in  this  pack. 


110  WERNER'S  READINGS 


Why,  I'm  sure  I've  counted  fifteen  at  least  falling  on  this  table. 
Suppose  we  just  stop  right  now  and  take  a  fresh  deal! 

Only  thirteen?  Well,  I  really  don't  know,  Mrs.  Brown,  it 
seems  to  me  that  it  is  just  possible  that  I  can  count  as  well  as  you, 
and  certainly  if  I  haven't  seen  fifteen  diamonds — well  never  mind, 
we  won't  argue  about  it !  We'll  say  no  more  about  it.  I  always 
think  that  nothing  is  in  worse  taste  than  an  argument  over  cards ! 
Some  people  lose  their  tempers  and  make  unpleasant  remarks,  but 
I  simply  hold  my  tongue  and  say  nothing — just  as  you  see  me 
doing  now.  I  may  have  my  own  thoughts,  of  course ;  I  don't  say 
that  I  don't  have  my  own  thoughts,  but  I  don't  make  things 
unpleasant  for  everyone  else  by  expressing  them;  no,  I  simply 
keep  quiet  and  put  up  with  things,  just  as  you  see  me  doing  now. 

Oh,  yes,  Mrs.  Brown !  I  see  your  heart  .on  the  table ;  I  am 
not  blind,  Mrs.  Brown,  I  see  a  great  many  things  which  might 
surprise  you,  but  without  going  into  that  I  may  assure  you  that, 
with  regard  to  that  heart  I  saw  it  the  minute  it  was  played,  five 
minutes  ago.  Yes,  indeed,  very  little  escapes  me,  I  assure  you ! 
But,  you  see,  Mrs.  Brown,  I  am  not  one  of  these  superficial 
players  who  throw  their  cards  down  on  the  table  without  so 
much  as  pausing  to  ask  what  is  trumps.  And,  by  the  way, 
what  is  trumps?  No  trumps?  Oh,  what  a  joke!  but  the  fact 
is,  there  has  been  so  much  disturbance  since  this  game  started, 
so  much  talking  and  unpleasantness,  that  it  is  not  wonderful  if 
I  get  a  little  confused  sometimes. 

No  trumps,  is  it?  And  that  is  your  heart?  Well,  I  think  we 
can  put  a  stop  to  that  very  quickly;  for  here  comes  my  little 
king,  and  your  ace  won't  take  it  this  time,  Mrs.  Brown;  for 
here  is  the  ace,  you  see,  in  my  own  hand.  Another  trick !  And 
here  is  my  little  queen.  I  think  she  can  be  counted  upon  to  take 
a  trick,  even  if  we  are  playing  against  these  clever  bridge- 
players!  Sure  enough!  And  now  we  will  just  put  down  a 
little  seven  and — what?  Have  you  got  the  eight,  Mrs.  Brown? 
Now,  are  you  sure  you  didn't  revoke?  I  think  I  saw  that  little 
eight  fall  on  my  king,  not  so  very  long  ago — at  least,  of  course, 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  3Q.  Ill 

it  couldn't  have  been  that  eight,  but — well,  let  us  look  at  the 
cards  and  make  sure.  I  don't  think  that  in  a  scientific  club  like 
this  we  ought  to  encourage  loose  play — oh,  no  one  has  revoked? 
Well,  well,  it  was  best  to  make  sure  certain.  I  am  sure  there  is 
so  much  talking  to-day  that  I  can  hardly  hear  my  own  voice. 

Just  one  minute,  Mrs.  Brown,  before  you  take  that  trick ! 
Do  you  know  that  that  little  eight  of  yours,  not  having  been 
played  before,  is  going  to  make  every  difference  in  the  game? 
Now,  wouldn't  you  like  to  take  it  back?  I  really  think  we'd 
get  about — why,  I  verily  believe  we'd  get  a  little  slam  or  some- 
thing very  near  it  if  you  did;  and  it  really  seems  pretty  hard 
just  for  a  little  mistake  like  that,  you  know.  What?  You 
don't  want  to  give  it  back  to  us?  Well,  really,  Mrs.  Brown,  I 
don't  want  to  seem  disagreeable,  but  I  think  I  shall  just  have 
to  take  that  back;  for,  you  see,  losing  that  trick  may  lose  us  the 
game  and,  after  all,  I  can't  help  feeling  that  good  nature  has  its 
limits. 

There,  you  see,  we've  made  four  tricks  on  that  game — isn't 
that  splendid?  Did  you  notice,  partner,  the  way  I  managed  to 
make  their  clubs  perfectly  valueless  to  them?  That  is  the  great 
secret  of  playing  a  no-trump  hand;  don't  let  your  opponents 
make  anything,  if  you  can  help  it. 

Are  you  still  talking  about  that  poor  little  eight  of  hearts, 
Mrs.  Brown?  I  should  think  you  would  have  forgotten  it  by 
this  time.  Well,  if  you  really  object  so  much,  we  won't  do  it 
again ;  only  do  stop  talking  about  it.  I  am  the  most  good-natured 
of  women,  but,  after  all,  it  seems  to  me  that  when  we  meet  to 
play  bridge  we  should  play  bridge,  not  talk  all  the  time  and 
make  unpleasant  remarks  about  our  companions.  And,  even 
if  we  do  lose,  why  make  such  a  fuss  about  it  ?  I  always  say  that, 
next  to  winning  gracefully,  there  is  nothing  like  losing  gracefully. 

Why,  how  dare  you  say  so  ?  I  never  make  a  fuss  about  any- 
thing !  I  am  the  coolest  of  women  !  Nothing  disturbs  me !  No, 
not  even  being  interrupted  in  the  midst  of  a  sentence !  This  is 
the  climax !     I  can't  stand  everything !     Now  you,  Mrs.  Brown, 


112  WERNER'S  READINGS 

and  you,  ladies,  just  you  listen  to  me  a  minute;  I  think  that  I 
may  be  allowed  to  make  one  remark  in  the  course  of  the  after- 
noon, and  this  is  the  remark:  I  am  a  scientific  bridge-player! 
I  come  here  to  play  bridge.  I  do  not  come  here  to  listen  to  other 
people  talking.  Yet,  from  the  time  that  I  first  declared  no 
trumps.  I  have  been  subjected  to  a  constant  storm  of  rudeness 
and  criticism.  I  couldn't  do  the  most  harmless  little  thing  without 
raising  a  commotion.  I  couldn't  take  back  that  poor  little  seven 
of  hearts  without  Mrs.  Green  and  Mrs.  Brown  talking  about  it. 
Now,  it  simply  comes  to  this :  Either  the  ladies  of  this  club — if 
I  may  apply  that  term  to  them — must  stop  making  themselves 
unpleasant,  or — I  leave  the  club.  What?  You  mean  to  say 
that — oh,  certainly,  with  the  greatest  pleasure  in  the  world !  I 
only  joined  this  club  because  I  was  asked,  anyway.  I  never 
really  enjoy  playing  with  women ;  they  persist  in  interrupting 
one,  and  they  never  want  to  be  taught.  In  future  I  shall  make 
it  a  rule  that  I  play  only  with  gentlemen ;  and  then  my  game 
won't  be  ruined ! 

It's  the  most  extraordinary  thing !  I  really  cannot  under- 
stand it!  I  am  the  only  woman  I  have  ever  known  who  could 
play  bridge  without  chattering  and  fighting  all  the  time ! 


LARRY   KISSES   THE    RIGHT   WAY. 


Jennie  E.  T.  Dowe. 


HOW  do  I  know  that  Larry  loves  me, 
How  does  he  his  love  betray? 
How  do  I  know  that  Larry  loves  me? 
Larry  kisses  the  right  way. 

"An'  how — an'  how  does  Larry  kiss  thee — 

Kiss  by  candle-light  or  day?" 
Only  this  my  tongue  can  tell  thee: 

Larry  kisses  the  right  way. 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  3Q.  113 

COME   BACK  TO  ERIN! 


Very  Rev.  Cannon  P.  A.  Sheehan. 


THE  old  order  changeth!       The  land  of  Ireland  is  passing 
into  Irish  hands  once  more.     And  the  many  deserted  man- 
sions here  and  there  throughout  Ireland,  and  the  many  ruined 
castles,  stare  from  their  gaping  windows  across  the  sea,  and  seem 
to  say  to  the  exiled  Gaels :  Come  back !    Come  back !    Back  to  the 
land  of  your  fathers !     Let  us  hear  once  more  the  sound  of  the 
:  soft  Gaelic  in  our  halls,  the  laughter  of  your  children  beneath  our 
roofs,  the  skirl  of  the  bagpipe  and  the  tinkle  of  the  harp  in  our 
I  courts,  the  shout  of  our  young  men  in  the  meadows  by  the  river, 
(the  old  heart-breaking  songs  from  the  fields,  the  seanchus  here 
1  where  our  broken  windows  stare  upon  weed-covered   lawns.    Come 
I  back !  Come  back  !     The  days  are  dark  and  short  since  ye  went ; 
there  is  no  sunshine  on  Ireland  and  the  nights  are  long  and  dis- 
mal !    And  there  in  the  moonlit  Abbey  by  the  river  rest  the  bones 
j  of  your  kindred !    Their  unquiet  spirits  haunt  every  mansion  and 
cottage,  and  the  wail  of  their  Banshee  is  over  the  fields  and  up 
along  the  hills !     They  shall  never  rest  in  peace  till  your  shadows 
sweep  across  their  tombs  and  your  prayers,  like  the  night  winds, 
stir  the  ivy  on  the  crumbling  walls !    Come  back !    Come  back ! 
Come  back  to  Erin ! 


AN   ECONOMICAL   MAN. 


S*  W.  Foss. 


HE  lived  on  thirteen  cents  a  day — 
Ten  cents  for  milk  and  cracker, 
One  cent  for  dissipation  gay, 

And  two  cents  for  tobacco; 
And  if  he  wished  an  extra  dish, 
He'd  take  his  pole  and  catch  a  fish. 


114  WERNER'S  READINGS 

And  if  his  stomach  raised  a  war 
•'Gainst  his  penurious  habit, 

He'd  go  and  kill  a  woodchuck  or 
Assassinate  a  rabbit. 

And  thus  he'd  live  in  sweet  content 

On  food  that  never  cost  a  cent. 

And,  that  he  might  lay  by  in  bank 
The  proceeds  of  his  labor, 

He'd  happen  'round  at  meals,  the  crank, 
And  dine  upon  his  neighbor. 

And  then  he'd  eat  enough  to  last 

Until  another  day  had  passed. 

He  bought  no  pantaloons  nor  vest, 
Nor  rich,  expensive  jacket; 

He  had  one  suit — his  pa's  bequest — 
He  thought  would  "stand  the  racket." 

He  patched  it  thirty  years,  'tis  true, 

And  then  declared  'twas  good  as  new. 

He  owned  but  one  suit  to  his  back, 
And  minus  cuffs  and  collars, 

He  died,  and  left  his  nephew  Jack 
Nine  hundred  thousand  dollars ! 

And  Jack  he  run  this  fortune  through 

And  only  took  a  year  or  two. 


A   SOCIAL   PARIAH. 


Alexander  Irvine. 


IT  happened  in  Connecticut.  Jim  Farren  was  six  feet  two 
inches  tall.  He  was  well  built,  broad-shouldered,  with  a 
fine  head  and  a  handsome  face.  But  he  was  a  degenerate.  The 
community  said  so,  and  the  community  knew.  Jim  got  tne  name 
of  being  a  desperado,  and  lived  up  to  his  reputation. 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  39.  115 

"Hey,  Jim,"  said  a  tough,  by  the  stove  in  the  grocery  one 
morning.  "Ah  heerd  ol'  Barnes  pay  his  respec's  t'  ye  th'  other 
day!" 

"So?    What'd  he  say?" 

"Said  ye  was  a  cross  between  Judas  Iscariot  an'  Jesse 
James." 

"He  did,  eh  ?    Waal,  I'll  git  square/' 

A  few  days  later  "ol'  Barnes"  found  two  of  his  best  cows 
dead  and  mutilated  in  the  pasture. 

A  man  who  cast  some  aspersions  on  Jim's  mother  had  his 
barns  burned  to  the  ground.  A  man's  house  was  splashed  witli 
kerosene  and  set  on  fire  while  the  family  slept;  the  church  had 
been  broken  into  and  desecrated;  whole  crops  of  hay  had  been 
wantonly  fired. 

One  winter's  morning  a  farmer  made  the  discovery  that 
six  of  his  fine  shoats  had  been  killed  and  taken  away  in  the  night. 
The  blood  stains  were  easily  traced  over  the  snow-covered  road 
to  the  home  of  Farren. 

This  was  the  last  straw.  The  sheriff  was  called.  He 
organized  a  posse  of  desperate  men  and  dispatched  them  on  a 
desperate  mission.  They  separated  Jim  from  his  arsenal  and 
pounced  upon  him.  He  fought  like  a  lion,  but  was  overpowered, 
heavily  chained,  and  landed  in  the  county  jail.  A  day  was  set 
for  the  trial,  and  the  community  breathed  easier. 

The  jury  was  composed  of  men  who  were  moved  by  a 
common  motive,  beset  by  a  common  fear.  The  judge  was  cold, 
pitiless,  scrupulous.  The  district  attorney  was  one  of  the  best 
criminal  lawyers  in  the  state.  The  judge  assigned  several  law- 
yers one  after  another  to  defend  the  accused,  and  one  after 
another  they  respectfully  declined.  Finally  came  a  young  man 
whose  declination  the  bench  refused  to  accept. 

On  the  day  of  the  trial  the  court-room  was  crowded.  Men 
described  how  cattle  had  been  mutilated  and  farm  products  stolen. 
Others  told  of  fires  and  wanton  destruction  of  property. 

"Are  you  not  going  to  cross-examine  these  witnesses?"  the 
judge  asked  the  attorney  for  the  defense. 


116  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"No,  your  Honor." 

"Why  not?" 

"It  wouldn't  help  the  defense." 

When  the  last  man  had  left  the  witness-box,  the  district 
attorney  opened  the  summing  up  for  the  state. 

"The  attorney  for  the  defense  will  reply?"  the  judge  asked. 

"No,  your  Honor." 

"Why  not?" 

"It  wouldn't  help  the  defense." 

The  district  attorney  arose. 

"Your  Honor,"  he  said,  "it  did  not  surprise  me  when  the  at- 
torney for  the  defense  refused  to  cross-examine  witnesses,  nor 
did  I  expect  him.  to  take  any  part  in  the  summing  up.  Gentlemen 
of  the  jury,  there  is  no  defense  in  this  case.  Jim  Farren  has  been 
the  scourge  of  this  community  for  a  number  of  years.  Men  good 
and  bad  have  shunned  him  as  they  would  a  leper.  So  immune 
has  he  been  hitherto  that  the  telltale  blood  on  the  spotless  snow 
never  bothered  him  in  the  least.  Men  had  feared,  dreaded  him, 
and  he  presumed  on  their  fear  and  their  cowardice.  He  defies  law, 
virtue,  religion,  men,  angels,  and  God.  You  know  him,  gentle- 
men, and  your  minds  are  made  up,  your  verdict  all  but  rendered." 

The  judge  delivered  his  charge.  It  was  simple  and  brief. 
Evidence  had  covered  all  the  counts.  There  was  no  defense — 
their  duty  was  plain. 

The  jury  retired  and  a  moment  later  filed  again  into  court, 
with  a  verdict  of  "Guilty  on  all  the  counts." 

"Now,  your  Honor,"  the  district  attorney  said,  "I  ask  that 
the  accused  be  given  the  full  penalty  of  the  law.  Jim  Farren  is 
a  menace  to  this  town  and  to  this  county.  In  some  parts  of  the 
country  they  would  shoot  this  man  like  a  dog  or  string  him  to  a 
lamppost.  He  is  twenty-eight  years  of  age;  the  maximum  pen- 
alty of  thirty  years  on  the  six  counts  will  rid  the  world  of  him 
until  he  is  fifty-eight.  It  will  relieve  this  community  of  a  pest,  a 
social  pariah,  a  vulgar  incendiary,  an  insensate  brute,  and  a  vag- 
abond who  is  rotten  to  the  very  core." 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  jg.  117 

The  prosecutor  sat  down — satisfied.  The  crowd  was  weary 
of  waiting. 

"Has  the  defense  anything  to  offer?"  asked  the  judge. 

"Before  you  sentence  the  prisoner,"  said  the  attorney,  "1 
would  like  to  offer  a  few  remarks." 

Silence  fell  on  the  assembly. 

"Jim  Farren  was  born  in  this  town.  His  father  was  a  drunk- 
ard and  was  killed  in  a  drunken  brawl.  His  mother  was  a  poor 
creature  who  died  a  year  after  her  husband,  leaving  Jim  at  the 
age  of  nine  to  push  for  himself.  Jim  was  the  last  of  his  name 
in  these  parts,  and  the  poor  make  no  friends. 

"When  the  landlord  took  possession  of  the  shack,  Jim  went 
out  and  began  the  battle  of  life,  as  a  little  wild  animal.  When 
hungry  he  ate  garbage — how  many  of  you  men  and  women  in 
this  court-room  remember  the  urchin  who  years  ago  lingered  like 
a  hungry  wolf  around  your  back  door  picking  up  scraps? 

"If  he  craved  for  anything  else  there  was  but  one  way  to 
get  it — steal  it.  In  the  winter  he  crept  into  your  haylofts  or 
stables  and  partook  of  the  shelter  of  your  cows,  your  horses, 
your  swine.  In  the  springtime  he  went  to  the  woods,  and  as  he 
had  wintered  with  domestic  animals,  now  he  summered  in  the 
freedom  of  the  forest.  And  when  you  good  people,  sauntering 
for  pleasure  through  the  woods,  came  upon  little  heaps  of  dead 
ashes,  you  never  suspected  that  it  was  the  track  of  an  Anglo- 
Saxon  child  thrown  violently  into  conflict  with  the  raw,  crude 
forces  of  nature. 

"He  returned  one  day — still  a  child,  but  ludicrously  arrayed 
in  a  man's  coat.  He  came  sauntering  innocently  down  past  the 
village  stores,  and  the  boys  of  his  age  laughed  and  trod  on  the 
tail  of  the  garment  he  had  found  in  the  fields.  He  became  self- 
conscious,  ground  his  little  teeth  in  rage,  and  swore  to  some  day 
avenge  the  wrong. 

"Before  he  was  nineteen  he  did  so.  The  youth  of  this  town 
knew  the  toughness  of  his  arms — the  power  and  speed  of  his 
body. 

"Do  we  gather  figs  of  thistles,  or  grapes  of  thorns?    Your 


118  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Honor,  in  twenty-eight  years  the  prisoner  never  had  the  tovch  of 
a  kindly  hand  nor  the  sound  of  a  tender  word  from  a  human  soul ; 
but  in  manhood,  as  in  childhood,  whoever  was  able  kicked  him, 
and  his  experience,  among  men  and  women  looking  at  him  in  this 
court-room,  led  him  to  believe  in  but  one  law.  It  was  the  law  he 
saw  in  the  wild — it  was  the  law  of  the  survival  of  the  fittest. 

"I  do  not  accuse  these  people  of  crime,  but  Jim  Farren  is 
what  this  community  made  him  by  neglect.  I  said  a  moment  ago 
that  not  a  single  soul  had  done  him  a  kindness.  I  will  modify 
that :  there  was  one.  He'  was  a  man  who  smiled  occasionally  at 
the  wastrel.  He  put  his  hand  sometimes  on  his  unkempt  head 
and  even  lent  him  small  sums  of  money — fifty  cents  was  the 
largest  sum. 

"He  paid  back  the  loans,  but  how  could  a  man  of  the  type 
described  by  the  district  attorney  pay  back  a  smile,  or  a  kind 
word  ?  Jim  Farren  paid  back  the  smile.  A  week  ago  a  plot  was 
hatched  in  the  jail  over  there,  by  four  of  the  most  desperate  men 
ever  corralled  by  process  of  law.  Between  these  men  and  the 
wide-open  country  and  liberty  was  one  man,  a  keeper.  Jim  Far- 
ren was  selected  to  strike  the  blow  that  meant  liberty  to  four  men 
and  death  to  one.    A  day  and  an  hour  was  set. 

"Your  Honor,  when  that  day  dawned  the  keeper  was  at 
home  sick  and  the  man  who  came  through  the  cells  was  the 
sheriff  himself. 

"  'Never  mind,'  they  said ;  'what  does  it  matter  whether  it's 
one  man  or  another  ?  Strike  the  blow !'  But  it  did  matter  to  Jim 
Farren,  for  the  sheriff  was  the  man  who  had  smiled  at  him  when 
a  boy,  said  a  kind  word  to  him  in  youth,  and  encouraged  him — 
just  a  little — when  a  man. 

'"If  you  don't  strike  the  blow  we'll  do  it  and  kill  you  for 
your  cowardice,'  they  said.  Jim  Farren  turned  around  and  an- 
swered, 'All  right.  You'll  kill  the  sheriff  over  my  dead  body,' 
and  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  put  his  life  in  the  scales  for  the  only 
human  being  that  ever  fanned  that  spark  in  him  that  we  call 
soul,  and  he  fought  three  desperadoes,  and  he  -won! 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  jg.  119 

"Mr.  Sheriff,"  said  the  lawyer,  "will  you  kindly  stand  up? 
Have  I  related  the  facts?" 

"You  have,  sir.  Farren  saved  my  life  at  the  risk  of  his 
own." 

"That  is  all,  your  Honor." 

When  the  judge  spoke  there  was  something  new  in  his 
voice. 

"Farren,"  he  said,  "you  have  been  found  guilty  of  burglary 
on  six  counts.  But  owing  to — on  account  of  certain  facts  hith- 
erto overlooked,  I  suspend  your  sentence.  The  court  is  ad- 
journed." 


THE   KINDERGARTEN   TOT. 


Fred  Emerson  Brooks. 


I'S  only  just  a  little  tot, 
An'  all  the  sense  I  has  I  got 
At  kindergarten  with  a  lot 

O'  little  tads  like  me. 
The  teacher  stands  us  in  a  row 
An'  makes  our  arms  go  to  an'  fro — 
That's  how  the  cale'thenics  go — 
With  "one,  an'  two,  an'  three!" 

She  sings  us  such  a  funny  tune, 
About  the  bugs  that  come  in  June ; 
An'  tells  us  all  about  the  moon ; 

An'  what  we'd  do  without  it ; 
Just  how  the  moon  can  shine  so  bright; 
Is  cheaper  than  electric  light; 
An'  keeps  on  workin'  every  night 

An'  makes  no  fuss  about  it. 


120  WERNER'S  READINGS 

She  says  the  world  is  big  an'  round ; 
An'  some  is  water,  some  is  ground; 
An'  some  has  never  yet  been  found 

Escept  by  polar  bears! 
One  half  the  world's  a  hemisphere 
An'  t'other  half  is — well — Oh,  dear  ! 
Guess  I  forgot  it  comin'  here ; 

But,  then,  nobody  cares. 

The  world  is  made  o'  colored  maps, 
Just  so's  to  puzzle  little  chaps ; 
But  down  inside  it's  full  o'  scraps 

An'  fires  they  tell  about! 
I  heard  the  teacher  once  confess : — 
The  world  is  full  o'  wickedness ! 
An'  that's  what  makes  earthquakes,  I  guess 

The  badness  comin'  out. 

The  world  turns  round  most  every  day! 
Guess  that  is  why  the  hens  don't  lay 
Their  eggs  at  night  for  fear  'at  they 

Would  all  fall  out  the  nest; 
'Cause  then  the  world  is  upside  down, 
An'  we'd  have  nothin'  in  the  town 
But  grocer's  eggs,  and  their  renown 

Is  bad  enough  at  best. 

One  day  a  handsome  man  came  in, 

Who  wasn't  either  kith  or  kin ; 

For  teacher  blushed  down  to  her  chin 

When  he  sat  down  beside  'er; 
His  uniform  was  brownish  stuff; 
Had  leggins  an'  a  yellow  cuff; 
She  couldn't  look  at  him  enough ; 

An'  called  him  her  "Rough  Rider." 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  39.  121 

She  bade  us  all  go  out    an'  play; 
But  I  stayed  in  an'  heard  her  say: — 
"They  didn't  shoot  your  arms  away 

When  you  were  in  the  South!" 
He  whispered  in  the  teacher's  ear 
The  longest  while  an'  then,  for  fear 
Her  telephone  was  out  o'  gear, 

He  whispered  in  her  mouth ! 

He  put  his  arms,  I  must  confess, 
Around  her  shoulders,  more  or  less; 
They  call  it  "Shoulder  Arms,"  I  guess, 

When  they  have  got  a  gun. 
Of  course,  she  took  it  very  cool; 
For  teachers  always,  in  the  school, 
Keep  harpin'  on  the  Golden  Rule; 

To  do  as  you'd  be  done. 

He  saved  the  country  in  the  strife; 
An'  once  again  he'd  risk  his  life, 
By  takin'  to  himself  a  wife 

An'  save  the  pretty  creature. 
It  seemed  to  me  so  very  plain — 
In  spite  of  fever  an'  the  rain- 
That  while  "Rememberin'  the  Maine" 

He'd  not  forgot  the  teacher. 


LOVE'S   FIRST   KISS. 


Frank  L.  Stanton. 


SWEETHEART,    'twas  but  a  while  ago,  it  scarce  seems  yes- 
terday, 
Though  now  my  locks  are  white  as  snow,  and  all  your  curls  are 

gray, 
When,  walking  in  the  twilight  haze,  ere  stars  had  smiled  above, 
I  whispered  soft;  "1  love  you,"  and  you  kissed  me  for  that  love. 


122  WERNER'S  READINGS 

The  first  kiss,  dear,  and  then  your  hand — your  little  hand  so  sweet, 
And  whiter  than  the  white,  white  sand  that  twinkled  'neath  your 

feet- 
Laid  tenderly  within  my  own.     Have  queens  such  lovely  hands? 
No  wonder  that  the  whippoorwills  made  sweet  the  autumn  lands. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  my  poor  heart  would  beat  to  death  and  break, 
While  all  the  world,  sweetheart,  sweetheart,  seemed  singing  for 

your  sake ; 
And  every  rose  that  barred  the  way  in  glad  and  dying  grace 
Forgot  its  faded  summer  day  and,  leaning,  kissed  your  face. 

I  envied  all  the  roses  then,  and  all  the  rosy  ways 
That  blossomed  for  your  sake  are  still  my  life's  bright  yesterdays  ; 
But,  thinking  of  that  first  sweet  kiss,  and  that  first  clasp  of  hands, 
Life's  whippoorwills  sing  sweeter  now  through  all  the  winter 
lands. 


THAT  JERSEY    COW. 


WE  stood  at  the  bars  as  the  sun  went  down 
Behind  the  hills  on  a  summer  day ; 
Her  eyes  were  tender  and  big  and  brown, 
Her  breath  as  sweet  as  the  new-mown  hay. 

Far  from  the  west  the  faint  sunshine 
Glanced  sparkling  off  her  golden  hair  ; 

Those  calm,  deep  eyes  were  turned  toward  mine, 
And  a  look  of  contentment  rested  there. 

I  see  her  bathed  in  the  sunlight  flood — 

I  see  her  standing  peacefully  now; 
Peacefully  standing  and  chewing  her  cud, 
As  I  rubbed  her  ears — that  Jersey  cow. 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  39.  123 

CUPID   AND   A   CADILLAC. 


Anna  Frances  Coote. 


[Comedy  Monologue  for  a  Woman.] 

[Written  expressly  for  this  book.] 

Characters  : 

Dorothy  Hope,  society  girl,  speaker,  present. 

Mr.  John   Benedict  and  school-children,   supposed  to  be 

present. 
Costume  :      Neat  walking  costume. 
Scene  :  Country  school-house ;  teacher's  desk,  covered  with  books, 

pencils,  etc. ;  blackboard  and  chairs. 

[Enter  Dorothy  trying  to  look  dignified.] 

Oh,  what  a  queer,  poky  little  place  this  is !  And  to  think  of 
me,  Dorothy  Hope,  a  schoolma'am!  Isn't  it  too  funny  for  words? 

[Removes  hat  and  gloves.]  How  Gwen  and  Alice  would 
stare.  And  John — but  I  mustn't  think  of  him.  Why,  that's 
what  I'm  here  for — to  forget  that  there  ever  was  such  a  person 
as  Mr.  John  Benedict ! 

I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  glasses  to  make  me  look  dignified. 
Never  mind !  I'll  manage  somehow.  I  must  get  to  work. 
[Arranges  articles  on  desk.]  My !  what  a  lot  of  pencils  !  And  all 
the  points  off!  I'll  sharpen  them  now  and  have  everything  all 
ready  when  the  "cherubs"  come  in.  There's  nothing  like  being 
systematic !  I  always  knew  I'd  make  a  good  school-teacher,  if 
I  only  had  a  chance  to  try.  [Sharpens  pencil.  Has  hard  work.] 
My !  but  this  knife  is  as  dull  as  an  old  hoe ! 

I  wonder  what  they  thought  at  the  hotel,  Thursday  night, 
when  they  found  I  had  gone !  How  lucky  that  I  happened  to  think 
of  the  Prices  and  their  dear  old  farm-house.  And  I  was  only 
there  three  days  when  I  had  this  position  thrown  into  my  face, 
so  to  speak.  Wasn't  it  kind  of  that  ugly  Miss  White  to  get  sick  and 
go  home?    Now,  I  expect  I  can  teach  here  all  year  if  I  want  to, 


124  WERNER'S  READINGS 

and  then  Fll  like  it  so  well  that  Fll  keep  right  on — and  be  an 
old  maid  [dolefully]  and  wear  glasses  and  last  year's  hats 
[excitedly],  and  John  can  marry  that  dreadful  Perkins  girl  he 
thinks  so  much  of  and  I  don't  care  a  bit  and — Oh!  Oh!  there 
I've  done  it !  I  knew  I  would !  I've  cut  my  finger  off ;  I  never  could 
sharpen  pencils  anyway !  John  has  always  done  it  for  me !  Oh, 
I  forgot!  [Angry.  Throws  knife  out  of  window  at  right.]  There, 
John  Benedict,  stay  there  till  you're  sent  for !  [Sobs.  Head  on 
desk.]  To  think  of  that  Perkins  thing  going  out  every  day  in 
John's  Cadillac — in  my  Cadillac !  I  hope  her  wig  will  blow  off 
some  day  when  they  are  going  like  the — er — fast.  And  those 
two  little  mouse-colored  curls  she  pins  in  her  hat!  I  wonder  if 
John  really  thinks  they're  hers!  Oh,  I  can't  stand  it!  I  can't 
stand  it!      [Sob.?.] 

[Knock  on  door  at  left.]  What's  that?  A  knock  at  the  door  ! 
[Dries  eyes  hastily.]  Come  in!  Oh!  A  letter  for  Miss  Hope! 
From  John!  No,  it  isn't  his  writing.  [Opens  letter  and  reads 
a/oud.] 

"  North  Riverdale,  Sept.  20,  19 — . 
"Dear  Madam  :    The  school  committee  will  visit  you  this  afternoon,  to 
judge  whether  or  not  you  are  a  suitable  substitute  for  Miss  White.     I  took 
it  upon  myself  to  inform  you  of  this  visit,  as  I  knew  of  your  inexperience  and 
thought  you  might  feel  nervous.      Yours  very  truly, 

"  Obadiah  Stanforth,  Chairman" 

[Throws  letter  into  waste-basket.]  Thank  you  very  much 
Mr.  Obadiah  Stanforth,  but  you've  mistaken  your  man!  I  ner- 
vous? [Excitedly.]  Why,  I  never  felt  less  nervous  in  my  life!  Fm 
as  cool  as  a  cucumber !  I  wonder  how  many  of  them  there  are ! 
Grizzly  old  hayseeds,  I  suppose !     Well,  I'll  show  them. 

Oh,  here  come  the  children!  [Children  enter  at  left.]  What 
little  dears !  Oh,  what  a  great  big  fellow !  Why,  he's  ten  feet 
taller  than  I  am!  [Pause.]  Still  they  come!  I  never  supposed 
there  were  so  many !  [To  class.]  Good-morning,  children.  [Dead 
silence.]  You  must  say,  "Good-morning,  Miss  Hope."  [Children 
repeat.]  That's  right.  Now  sit  up  straight  and  fold  your  hands, 
and  when  I  say  your  name,  you  must  say,  "Present."    [Opens 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  JO.  125 

book  on  desk.]  What!  We  must  sing  first?  [Aside:  Oh!  Suffer- 
ing Moses!  I  can't  sing  a  note.]  Well,  all  right,  we'll  sing. 
America?  Very  well.  Now — sing!  [Children  sing  very  dis- 
cordantly.] Oh,  children,  stop  !  Stop  at  once!  That's  dreadful ! 
[Aside:  Sounds  like  a  Coney  Island  mardi  gras!]  Children,  we 
won't  sing  to-day. 

Now,  we'll  call  the  roll.  "John  Frientagen,"  "Henry 
Gonorowskovitch,"  "Maurice  Chizzelheimer" —  What  is  it,  John  ? 
No,  you  can't  get  a  drink!  Stop  throwing  spitballs  at  the  clock! 
"Fritz  Higginbottom" —  "Speak  louder,  please!  [Frits  shouts.] 
Well,  I  didn't  say  shout !  "Marguerite  O'Shaunnessy."  [No  an- 
swer.] "Marguerite  O'Shaunnessy!"  What?  She's  deaf  and 
dumb?  [Aside:  Should  think  she  would  be  zvith  that  name!] 
"Nicholino  Gasolineo !"  [Aside:  Reminds  me  of  John's  auto.] 
Fritz!  Fritz!  Sit  down!  You  mustn't  walk  on  the  desks! 
Henry!  Stop  laughing!  Where  was  I?  "Ferdinand  Bickel- 
hauser !"  Maurice,  stand  in  the  corner !  We  won't  call  the  rest 
of  the  roll — until  later. 

Now  I  am  going  to  give  you  some  examples  in  arithmetic, 
and  I  hope  you  will  all  be  very  quick  and  smart  with  your  an- 
swers. Henry,  suppose  your  father  gave  you  fifty  cents  and  told 
you  to  give  half  to  your  brother,  how  much  would  you  have  for 
yourself?  Fifty  cents?  Explain!  Because  you  haven't  got  any 
brother?  Well,  can't  you  make  believe  you  have  a  brother? 
What,  you  don't  want  to?  You've  got  enough  poor  relations 
•now?     [Aside:     Oh,  dear,  isn't  he  dreadful ?] 

Class !  Listen !  If  a  man  started  out  in  a  30-horsepower 
Cadillac  to  go  from  Brampshire  to  North  Riverdale  and  back 
;  again,  and  he  traveled  at  the  rate  of  forty  miles  an  hour  the  first 
hour,  and  fifty  miles  an  hour  the  next  two  hours,  and  sixty  miles 
an  hour  the  rest  of  the  way,  and  it  is  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
four  miles  from  Brampshire  to  North  Riverdale,  and  he  started 
from  Brampshire — well,  very  early  in  the  morning,  right  after 
breakfast,  and  didn't  stop  for  anything,  not  even  for  a  dog  or  a 
drink,  what  time  would  he  get  to  North  Riverdale  ?  [Long  pause.] 
What!    you  don't  know?    How  stupid!    Do  I  know?     [Dorothy 


126  WERNER'S  READINGS 

tries  to  figure  mentally.  Becomes  confused.']  Why,  yes,  of 
course,  I  know ;  but  I  won't  tell  you !  I  would  rather  have  you 
work  it  out  for  yourselves.  [Aside :  /  never  could  do  arithmetic] 
Figure  it  out  to-night  and  tell  me  the  answer  when  you  come 
to-morrow. 

We'll  have  a  writing  lesson  now.  I'll  write  a  sentence  on  the 
board  and  you  may  all  copy  it.  [Writes.]  "John  loves  me."  [Em- 
barrassed.] No!  he  doesn't.  That  won't  do.  [Erases.]  There, 
that's  better:  "James  loves  his  dog."  Now,  you  may  all  copy  it. 
What  ?  You  haven't  any  pencils !  Oh,  and  I  cut  my  finger  and 
threw  it  out  the  window — the  knife,  I  mean.  There  it  is.  Get 
it  for  me,  Maurice,  please !  [Looks  down  the  road.]  Why,  that 
looks  like  John's  Cadillac  coming  up  the  road !  It  is !  And  John 
driving  it !  I  wonder  who  the  man  in  the  tonneau  is !  He's  going  by ! 
[Calls :]  John !  John  !  Oh,  what  shall  I  say  to  him !  Sit  down,  chil- 
dren, and  keep  still !  No,  it  isn't  a  circus-parade !  Oh,  if  he'll 
only  take  me  away  from  here,  I'll  forgive  him  everything. 

[Enter  John  at  left.]  Yes,  I'm  here!  Teaching  school.  Why, 
yes,  of  course,  I  like  it.  I'm  going  to  do  it  always.  Marguerite 
O'Shaunnessy !  Sit  down!  Sit  down,  I  say!  Oh,  she  can't 
hear  me!  [To  John  haughtily.]  Explain  my  conduct?  John  Ben- 
edict, I  don't  think  it's  necessary  to  explain  anything  to  a  man 
who  spends  all  his  time  with  a  yellow-haired  frump  like  that 
Miss  Perkins  !  [Pause.]  Your  note?  No,  I  didn't  get  any  note  ! 
She's  engaged  to  a  chum  of  yours  and  you  promised  him  to  give 
her  a  good  time !  Oh,  John,  forgive — 'Maurice  Chizzelheimer ! 
Stop  standing  on  your  head !  Oh,  John,  I'd  rather  die  than  teach 
school!  Ferdinand!  Sit  down !  [To  John:]  But  who  is  the  man 
in  the  auto?  A  minister?  To  marry  us!  Here!  Now!  You 
thought  it  would  save  time  to  bring  him  with  you?  Well,  of  all 
cast-iron  nerve!  Why — yes — John,  I  suppose  I  will — but  it's  just 
to  make  Alice  and  Gwen  envious.  They  do  so  love  a  romance. 
But  I  must  get  rid  of  these  children  first. 

[To  class:]  Children,  you  may  all  go  home  now.  No,  I  know 
it  isn't  time,  but  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  half-holiday  to-day,  be- 
cause— because — well,  because  you've  been  so  good  !    Good-bye ! 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  39.  127 

Grood-bye !  [Exit  children.]  Now,  John,  I'm  ready.  Get  him. 
[Exit  John.]  Oh,  John!  Comeback!  I  can't  marry  you.  The 
'committee!  They're  coming  this  afternoon!  What  shall  I  do? 
[Suddenly.]  Here,  I'll  fix  them.  [Writes  on  blackboard  across 
'•front  of  room  and  reads:] 

'■'■Dear  Committee :    Can't  accept  the  position,  as  I  have  engaged  to 
teach  a  class  of  one — for  life.  Dorothy  Hope— less." 

Now,  John,  bring  in  the  parson ! 
[Curtain.] 


MY   TRIP   TO   THE   MOON. 


F.  Irene  Boise. 


[Composed  when  eight  years  old.] 

I    WENT  one  night  on  a  trip  to  the  moon; 
I  went  all  the  way  in  a  little  spoon. 
I  suppose  it  must  have  been  a  dream ; 
But,  then,  it  was  a  nice  little  scene. 

I  gazed  on  the  stars,  I  went  to  the  moon, 
A-rocking  away  in  my  nice  little  spoon. 
The  wind  was  blowing  and  roaring  about; 
But,  then,  it  was  a  nice  little  route. 

But,  oh !    I  will  tell  you :    it  was  getting  light, 
And  I  had  to  bid  the  moon  good-night  ; 
And  so  I  said,  "Good-night,  Mrs.  Moon," 
And  hurried  away  in  my  nice  little  spoon. 

And  when  Mrs.  Moon  said  good-night  to  me, 
My  little  heart  was  full  of  glee; 
And  I  heard  a  smack — do  you  think  'twas  amiss  ?- 
For  the  man  of  the  moon  had  thrown  me  a  kiss. 


128  •  WERNERS  READINGS 

INMATE   OF   THE   DUNGEON. 


W.  C.  Morrow. 


[From  LippincotC s  Alagazine.    By  special  permission.] 

[The  inmate  of  the  dungeon  is  a  State's  Prison  convict  who,  upon  the  eve 
of  his  release  after  ten  years  of  exemplary  behavior  in  prison  under  a  warden 
who  understood  him,  was  accused  of  theft  by  the  new  warden ;  and  upon 
refusing  to  admit  having  done  that  of  which  he  was  innocent,  was  stripped, 
whipped  until  he  fainted,  then  thrown  into  an  unlighted  dungeon,  where  he 
has  been  kept  for  twenty-three  months  upon  bread  and  water.  He  has  sworn 
to  kill  the  warden  at  the  earliest  opportunity.  Three  weeks  before  the  part 
of  the  story  which  I  am  about  to  relate,  the  Board  of  State's  Prison  Directors 
investigated  his  case,  and  sent  him  to  the  hospital,  where  he  has  been  in  bed 
in  the  sunshine  and  treated  with  the  greatest  care.  From  there  the  warden 
called  him  to  the  office.] 

THE  warden  sat  alone  in  the  prison  office  with  No.  14208. 
That  he  should  at  last  have  been  brought  face  to  face  with 
the  man  whom  he  had  determined  to  kill,  perplexed  the  convict. 
He  was  not  manacled ;  the  door  was  locked,  and  the  key  lay  on  the 
table  between  the  two  men.  Three  weeks  in  the  hospital  had 
proved  beneficial,  but  a  deathly  pallor  was  still  in  his  face. 

"The  action  of  the  directors  three  weeks  ago,"  said  the  war- 
den, "made  my  resignation  necessary.  I  have  aWaited  the  appoint- 
ment of  my  successor,  who  is  now  in  charge.  I  leave  the  prison 
to-day.  In  the  meantime,  I  have  something  to  tell  you  that  will 
interest  you.  A  few  days  ago  a  man  who  was  discharged  from 
the  prison  last  year  read  what  the  papers  have  published  recently 
about  your  case,  and  he  has  written  to  me  confessing  that  it  was 
he  who  got  your  tobacco  from  the  captain  of  the  guard.  His 
name  is  Salter,  and  he  looks  very  much  like  you.  He  had  got 
his  own  extra,  and  when  he  came  up  again  and  called  for  yours 
the  captain,  thinking  it  was  you,  gave  it  to  him.  There  was  no 
intention  on  the  captain's  part  to  rob  you." 

The  convict  gasped  and  leaned  forward  eagerly. 

"Until  the  receipt  of  this  letter,  I  had  opposed  the  movement 
which  had  been  started  for  your  pardon ;  but  when  this  letter 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  39.  129 

came  I  recommended  your  pardon,  and  it  has  been  granted.  Be- 
sides you  have  a  serious  heart  trouble.  So  you  are  now  dis- 
charged from  the  prison." 

The  convict  stared  and  leaned  back  speechless. 

"The  stage  will  leave  for  the  station  in  four  hours.  You 
have  made  certain  threats  against  my  life.  I  have  treated  you 
with  cruelty,  the  enormity  of  which  I  now  comprehend.  I  thought 
I  was  right.  My  fatal  mistake  was  in  not  understanding  your 
i,  nature.  I  misconstrued  your  conduct  from  the  beginning,  and 
in  doing  so  I  have  laid  upon  my  conscience  a  burden  which  will 
embitter  the  remaining  years  of  my  life.  I  "would  do  anything 
in  my  power,  if  it  were  not  too  late,  to  atone  for  the  wrong  I 
have  done  you.  If,  before  I  sent  you  to  the  dungeon,  I  could 
have  understood  the  wrong  and  foreseen  its  consequences,  I 
would  cheerfully  have  taken  my  own  life  rather  than  raise 
a  hand  against  you.  The  lives  of  us  both  have  been  wrecked; 
but  your  suffering  is  in  the  past — mine  is  present,  and  will  cease 
only  with  my  life.  For  my  life  is  a  curse,  and  I  prefer  not  to 
I]  keep  it." 

With  that  he  took  a  loaded  revolver  from  a  drawer  and 
laid  it  before  the  convict. 

"Now  is  your  chance,"  he  said  quietly :  "no  one  can  hinder 
you." 

The  convict  shrank  away  from  the  weapon  as  from  a  viper. 

"Not  yet — not  yet,"  he  whispered,  in  agony. 

The  two  men  sat  and  regarded  each  other  without  the  move- 
ment of  a  muscle. 

"Are  you  afraid  to  do  it?"  asked  the  warden. 

"No!  you  know  I  am  not.     But  I  can't — not  yet — not  yet." 

The  convict  staggered  to  his  feet. 

"You  have  done  it  at  last !  You  have  broken  my  spirit.  A 
human  word  has  done  what  the  dungeon  and  the  whip  could  not 

do It  twists  inside  of  me  now "I  could  be  your  slave 

for  that  human  word."    Tears  streamed  from  his  eyes.     "I  can't 


130  WERNER'S  READINGS 

help  crying.      I'm  only  a  baby,  after  all — and  I  thought  I  was 
a  man." 

He  reeled,  and  the  warden  caught  him  and  seated  him  in  a 
chair.  He  took  the  convict's  hand  in  his  and  felt  a  firm,  tru 
pressure  there.  The  convict's  eyes  rolled  vacantly.  A  spasm  of 
pain  caused  him  to  raise  his  free  hand  to  his  chest ;  his  thin 
gnarled  fingers  clutched  automatically  at  his  shirt.  A  faint,  hard 
smile  wrinkled  his  wan   face. 

"That  human  word,"  he  whispered — "if  you  had  spoken  it 
long  ago,  if — but  it's  all — it's  all  right — now.  I'll  go — I'll  go  tc 
work — to-morrow." 

There  was  a  slightly  firmer  pressure  of  the  hand  that  held 
the  warden's;  then  it  relaxed.  The  fingers  which  clutched  the 
shirt  slipped  away,  and  the  hand  dropped  to  his  side.  The  wear) 
head  sank  back  and  rested  on  the  chair ;  the  strange,  hard  smik 
still  sat  upon  the  marble  face,  and  a  dead  man's  glassy  eyes  wen 
upturned  toward  the  ceiling. 


MISSING    BOBBY    SHAFTOE. 


y  Jack  Bennett. 


"FyOBBY  Shaftoe's  gone  to  sea, 

■D     Silver  buckles  on  his  knee ; 
He'll  come  back  some  day  to  me, 

Pretty  Bobby  Shaftoe!" 
Singing  softly  o'er  and  o'er 
Echoes  from  the  bedroom  door, 
Sing  it  as  I  sing  no  more, 

Sing  to  Bobby  Shaftoe. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  sg.  131 

In  the  yard  the  half -grown  hound 
Beats  his  tail  along  the  ground, 
Missing  the  accustomed  sound 

Of  his  master  calling, 
For  a  frolic  in  the  hall 
With  the  skipping-rope  and  ball ; 
But  a  silence  over  all 

Seems  a  shadow  falling. 

Lonesomely  the  little  chair 
Lingers  in  the  corner  there, 
With  a  half  expectant  air, 

Waiting  for  his  coming  ; 
And  the  red  tin-horn  lies  dumb 
On  the  shelf  beside  the  drum, 
Waiting  till  the  drummer  come, 

With  his  sturdy  drumming. 

On  the  yellow  picture  book, 
Bopeep,  with  her  shepherd  crook, 
Seems  to  stand  and  wait  and  look 

Off  the  gaudy  cover, 
Wondering  by  what  mishap 
She  is  not  upon  the  lap 
Of  a  chubby  little  chap, 

Pondering  above  her. 

In  the  closet  lie  his  shoes, 
Worn  to  rusty,  dusty  hues 
Tramping  in  the  dust  and  dews 

Down  along  the  river, 
Where  he  used  to  sit  and  dream 
In  the  sunshine  by  the  stream, 
Till  some  frightened  heron's  scream 

Made  him  jump  and  shiver. 


132  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Here's  the  picture  that  he  drew, 
Red  and  yellow,  green  and  blue, 
Left  before  it  was  half  through, 

Babyland's  endeavor. 
Here's  the  cap  he  used  to  wear 
Tilted  on  his  curly  hair  : 
Bobby's  things  are  everywhere, 

Bobby's  gone  forever. 

"Bobby  Shaftoe's  gone  to  sea; 

Silver  buckles  on  his  knee ; 

He'll  come  back  some  day  to  me, 

Pretty  Bobby  Shaftoe !" 
Baby  mine,  where'er  ye  be, 
Mother's  prayers  follow  thee. 
Oh,  come  back,  my  boy,  to  me, 

Come  back,  Bobby  Shaftoe ! 


HER    "NO." 


NO,  Impudence  !   you  shan't  have  one ! 
How  many  times  must  I  refuse? 
Away, 
I  say! 
Or  else  you'll  sure  my  friendship  lose. 
I  cannot  bear  such  forward  fun ! 
So,  quick,  begone!     If  not,  I'll  run. 

Why,  now  I'll  have  to  be  severe. 
No,  not  a  kiss  to  you  I'll  give. 

Take  care ! 

Take  care ! 
I'll  tell  papa,  as  sure's  I  live. 
I  never  saw  a  man  so  queer ! 
But — are  you  sure  there's  no  one  near? 


AND  RECITA  T10NS  NO.  jg.  133 

THE   QUAKER. 


Stephen   Adams. 


A  QUAKER  he  sat  in  his  chamber  dim, 
Looking  as  glum  as  glum  might  be, 
When  the  sound  of  music  stole  up  to  him, 

"Oh!  'tis  a  sin  and  a  snare/'  quoth  he. 
But  louder  and  sweeter  it  rose  than  before, 

He  pressed  his  book  to  his  knee. 
Then  he  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  he  opened  the  door: 

''Verily  yea!     I  must  go  and  see!" 
So  he  stole  down  the  stairs  with  a  smile  in  his  eye — 
For  a  Quaker  can  smile,  when  there's  nobody  by ! 

There  was  his  sweet  little  cousin  alone, 

Dancing  as  gay  as  gay  might  be, 
"O  fie,  Cousin,  fie !"  said  he,  with  a  sigh, 

"Dancing  is  terribly  wrong !"  quoth  he. 
"But  how  dost  thou  know?"  she  said  with  a  smile. 

"I  never  have  tried,"  quoth  he. 
"But  I  think  that  I  could,  and  I'm  sure  that  I  ivould!" 

"Verily  yea !    then  I  would,"   said  she. 
So  he  took  her  sweet  hand,  and  he  said,  "Let  us  try" — 
For  a  Quaker  can  dance,  when  there's  nobody  by ! 

So  they  danced  and  danced  in  the  twilight  dim, 

Happy  and  gay  as  well  might  be, 
"Thou  must  hold  me  much  closer,"  she  whispered  to  him, 

"Verily  yea!    then  I   will,"   quoth   he. 
And  he  felt  her  heart  beating  so  close  to  his  own, 

As  they  danced  till  the  daylight  fled, 
"O  coz,  prithee  say,  dost  thou  think  we  may  yea?" 

"Verily,  verily  yea !"  she  said, 
So  he  yeaed  and  she  yeaed  as  their  lips  were  so  nigh ; 
For  a  Quaker  can  kiss,  when  there's  nobody  by ! 


134  WERNER'S  READINGS 

WHEN   ANGELINE   A-SHOPPING   GOES. 

Harold  Sussman. 


WHEN  Angeline  a-shopping  goes, 
She  walks  from  store  to  store; 
She  looks  at  this,  she  looks  at  that, 
She  looks  at  things  galore. 

She  looks  at  satins,  ribbon,  lace, 

She  looks  at  chiffons,  too, 
She  looks  at  dress  goods  colored  red, 

And  green,  and  brown,  and  blue. 

She  tries  on  gloves,  she  tries  on  hats, 
She  tries  on  veils  and  shoes ; 

She  tries  on  wraps,  she  tries  on  cloaks, — 
She  knows  not  what  to  choose. 

She  prices  belts,  and  rings,  and  pins, 
And  earrings,  bracelets,  chains ; 

"I  cannot  quite  make  up  my  mind," 
Fair  Angeline  explains. 

She  looks  at  furniture    and  toys, 

At  groceries  she  looks, 
She  looks  at  carpets,  clocks,  and  lamps, 

And  then  she  looks  at  books. 

She  wanders  round  for  three  good  hours, 

Until  she's  nearly  dead ; 
Then  Angeline  a  purchase  makes, — 

She  buys  a  spool  of  thread. 


AND  REGIT  A  TIONS  NO.  jg.  135 

LEST   WE   FORGET! 

("  The  Recessional.") . 


Rudyard  Kipling. 


GOD  of  our   fathers,  known  of  old — 
Lord  of  our  far-flung  battle-line — 
Beneath  whose  awful  hand  we  hold 
Dominion  over  palm  and  pine — 
Lord  God  of  hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget ! 

The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies, 
The  captains  and  the  kings  depart; 

Still  stands  thine  ancient  sacrifice, 
A  humble  and  a  contrite  heart. 

Lord  God  of  hosts  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

Far-called,  our  navies  melt  away ; 

On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire, 
Lo,  all  the  pomp  of  yesterday 

Is  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre ! 
Judge  of  the  nations,  spare  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget ! 


If,  drunk  with  sight  of  power,  we  loose 
Wild  tongues  that  have  not  Thee  in  awe — 

Such  boasting  as  the  Gentiles  use 
Or  lesser  breeds  without  the  law — 

Lord  God  of  hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 


13G  WERNER'S  READINGS 

For  heathen  heart  that  puts  her  trust 
In  reeking  tube  and  iron  shard — 

All  valiant  dust  thc.t  builds  on  dust, 

And  guarding,  calls  not  Thee  to  guard — 

For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word, 

Thy  mercy  on  Thy  people.  Lord. 

Amen. 


ORGAN-BOY  TO  THE  CHOIR-GIRL. 


AS  I  pump  upon  the  mighty  organ, 
My  eyes  are  fixed  on  thee, 
And  yet  I  know  thy  glorious  orbs 
Care  not  to  dwell  on  me. 

I  listen  to  thy  angel  voice, 
And  dream  it's  from  above; 

It  fills  my  soul  with  rapture  deep, 
And  feeds  the  flame  of  love. 

I  sit  here  pumping,  pumping; 

Yet,  clear  above  the  throng, 
In  spite  of  pedals  thumping, 

I  hear  thy  angel  song. 

Now  sweeter  still  and  higher 
The  dainty  bird-notes  ring, 

Oh !  would  that  I  were  nigher, 
Thou  winsome  little  thing! 

Through  life  I  could  adore  her, 

My  heart  is  lost  in  doubt, 
I  must  confess  I  love — whir-r-r — 

Oh,  there!  the  wind's  run  out 


fr? 


AND  REGIT  A  TIONS  NO.  39.  137 

THE   SPOILED   CHILD. 


T.  A.  Daly. 


[Copyright,  1906,  by  T.  A.  Daly.    By  permission,  from  "  Canzoni,"  published  by  Catholic 
Standard  and  Times  Publishing  Co.] 

W'EN  gran'pa  takes  me  on  his  knee 
I'm  jist  as  glad  as  I  kin  be; 
'Cause  he's  the  bestest  friend  I  got, 
]ft  An'  in  his  pockets  they's  a  lot 

Of  candies,  sugar-cakes  an'  things 
Like  dear  ole  gran'pa  always  brings. 
An'  he'll  say:  "Now,  my  little  dear, 
Let's  see  w'at's  in  this  pocket  here ;" 
And  I  put  in  my  hand  and  take 
Some  candy  out  or  else  some  cake. 
'Nen  gran'pa  laughs,  an'  so  do  I ; 
He'll  play  he's  s'prised  an'  say:  "O  !  My! 
I  wonder  how  that  got  in  there ; 
Now,  w'at  do  I  git  fur  my  share?" 
I  laugh,  an'  climb  right  up  an'  kiss 
Him  where  his  tickly  whiskers  is. 
He  hugs  me  tight,  an'  sez :    "Oho ! 
Here's  jist  the  goodest  boy  I  know." 
An'  I  am  good  as  I  kin  be 
Wen  gran'pa  takes  me  on  his  knee. 

When  papa  takes  me  on  his  knee 
I  ain't  so  glad  as  I  might  be. 
He  ain't  as  nice  as  gran'pa  wuz, 
For  he  don't  do  like  gran'pa  does. 
He  on'y  does  it  w'en  he's  mad, 
An'  w'en  he  sez  I'm  awful  bad. 
He  don't  like  gran'pa's  "carryin's-on," 
Fur  onct  w'en  gran'  pa'd  been  an'  gone 


138  WERNER'S  READINGS 

He  told  ma :    "Say,  it  drives  me  wild 
The  way  your  pa  jist  sp'iles  that  child," 
An'  'nen  he  maked  a  grab  fur  me 
An'  upside-downed  me  on  his  knee, 
,  An'  says  :   "Now  if  it's  in  the  wood 

I'll  see  if  I  can't  make  you  good." 
An'  w'en  pa  let  me  off  his  knee 
I  promised  him  how  good  I'd  be. 


GOOD-BYE,    LITTLE   BOY. 


Isabel  Richey. 


GOOD-BYE,  little  boy,  good-bye! 
I  never  had  thought  of  this, 
That  some  day  I'd  vainly  sigh 
For  the  baby  I  used  to  kiss. 
That  into  his  corner  a  man  would  grow, 
And  I  should  not  miss  him  nor  see  him  go 
Till  all  of  a  sudden  the  scales  would  fall, 
And  one  be  revealed  to  me  straight  and  tall. 
Then  I  should  be  startled  and  sadly  cry: 
"Good-bye,  little  boy,  good-bye!" 

Good-bye,  little  boy,  good-bye ! 

You  are  going  despite  my  tears. 
You  can  not,  and  neither  can  I, 

Successfully  cope  with  the  years. 
They  fit  for  the  burden  that  all  must  bear, 
And  then,  at  their  pleasure,  they  place  it  there. 
I  love  you,  too,  but  my  heart  is  sore 
For  the  child  who  has  gone  to  return  no  more, 
And  deep  in  my  bosom  I  sadly  cry: 
"Good-bye,  little  boy,  good-bye  \" 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  jg.  139 

WHAT   THE   WIND    SAYS. 


Zitella  Cocke. 


WHEN   Willie  goes  upstairs  to   sleep, 
A  wakeful  ear  he's  sure  to  keep 
Upon  the  Wind,  who  always  knows 
What  Willie  does,  and  where  he  goes ; 
If  he's  been  good  the  whole  day  long, 
The  Wind  sings  ever  the  same  song, 
In  sweetest,  softest  lullabies, 
As  Willie  gently  shuts  his  eyes : 
"Good  and  true  !    Good  and  true  ! 
Willie,  you — Willie,  y-o-u  !" 

But  sometimes — ah,  the  truth  is  sad — 

Poor  Willie's  wilful,  cross,  and  bad ; 

He  breaks  his  mother's  strictest  rule, 

And  even  slips  away  from  school. 

Then  when  he  creeps  into  his  bed, 

And  pulls  the  pillow  o'er  his  head, 

And  listens — hark !    the  mad  Wind  knows, 

Hear  how  it  whistles,  storms  and  blows: 

"So  untrue!     So  untrue! 

Willie,  you — I  mean  y-o-u!" 

Oh,  then  his  heart  begins  to  quake, 

And  one  long  hour  he  lies  awake, 

And  wonders  how  the  wise  Wind  knew — 

The  wisest  wind  that  ever  blew — 

Till  something  inside  speaks  out  bold : 

"I  am  the  monitor  who  told ! 

Oh,  yes,  'twas  I  who  told  the  Wind, 

And  both  of  us  know  you  have  sinned. 

Willie,  you — Willie,  y-o-u  !" 

Wind  and  Conscience  both  say,  "Y-o-u!" 


140  WERNERS  READINGS 

APRIL   TO   MARCH. 


Mildred  I.  McNeal. 


I    WAS  fond  of  her  in  April, 
As  she  wore  her  Easter  gown, 
A  dream  of  palest  April  tints, — 

The  daintiest  in  the  town. 
Where  violets  bloomed  below  her  eyes 

And  matched  their  merry  hue 
With  two  as  blue  and  shy  as  they, 
The  solemn  service  through. 

I  was  fond  of  her  in  April, 

I  was  fond  of  her  in  June, 
In  ruffled  lawn  and  garden  hat 

With  roses  overstrewn. 
And  sister  roses — harbingers 

Of  happier  Junes  to  be — 
In  hiding  near  her  dimpled  cheeks, 

But  deepening  not  for  me. 

In  bright  October  still  was  she 

The  fairest  of  them  all, 
Gowned  all  in  misty  purple, 

The  queen  flower  of  the  fall; 
And  was  I  fond  of  her,  you  ask? 

Aye,  marry,  that  was  I ; 
But  many  a  heart  hath  lost  its  health 

When  love  came  passing  by. 

I  loved  her  in  December, 

From  the  merry  moving  foot 

To  the  shining,  saucy  crown  of  her, 
Yet  kept  my  loving  mute ; 


AND  REGIT  A  TIONS  NO.  jg.  141 

As  who  would  not  when  her  bright  face 

From  out  its  frame  of  furs 
Smiled  quite  impartial  welcomings 

On  twenty  woi  shippers. 

And  now  she  sits,  with  rose  in  hair, 

A  blushing  rose — perchance 
To  share  the  blushes  in  her  face, 

Redeem  her  veiled  glance, — 
And  I  am  fond — more  fond  of  her 

Than  you  could  guess — for  she 
Sits  just  across  our  tiny  board 

And  pours  out  evening  tea. 


SAVE    ONE    FOR    ME.' 


THE  Reverend  Doctor  Mildmay, 
On  saving  souls  intent, 
To  every  saintly  gathering 
His  portly  presence  lent; 
His  mild,  benignant  eyes  beamed  out 

Behind  their  silver  specs, 
And  his  unction  and  his  fervor 
Were  a  power  in  saving  wrecks. 

The  doctor  had  a  daughter, 

Madge — captivating  girl, 
Conventional — eyes  luminous  brown 

And  every  tooth  a  pearl ; 
A  lissome  form,  a  plump  white  hand, 

Round  cheeks,  a  healthy  glow, 
And  every  charm  the  poet  sings 

Or  raves  of — well,  you  know. 


142  WERNER'S  READINGS 

One  day  as  he  was  going  out 

She  met  him  at  the  door. 
Says  she,  "Oh,  darling  papa,  dear, 

What  are  you  going  for  ?" 
"I'm  off  to  a  temperance  meeting 

To  save  young  men,  cherie. 
She  crept  to  him  demurely : 

"Save  a  nice  young  one  for  me." 


THE   PHILANTHROPIST. 


His  Life. 

HE  lived  the  meanest  kind  of  life: 
He  scrimped  his  children,  starved  his  wife, 
And  by  all  kinds  of  legal  guile 
Together  scraped  a  mighty  pile. 

His  Will. 
He  died.     His  will  endowed  a  church 
And  left  no  charity  in  the  lurch ; 
Forgotten  were  his  sinful  ways, 
And  all  men  straightway  sang  his  praise. 

His  Obituary. 
And  all  the  papers  straightway  said : 
"That  great  philanthropist  is  dead, 
That  noble,  honest,  pious  man; 
Replace  him  now  no  other  can." 

His  Epitaph. 
They  o'er  him  wrote  an  epitaph, 
That  must  have  made  old  Satan  laugh: 
"Rest,  servant,  thy  good  work  is  done, 
Thy  great  reward  is  now  begun." 


AND  REC1TA  TIONS  NO.  3Q.  143 

BACHELOR   AND   BABY. 


Margaret  Cameron. 


[Copyright,  1907,  by  Harper  &  Brothers.    Used  by  permission  of  the  author.] 

"FRANKLIN  KEENE  lived  in  San  Francisco,  and  had  in- 
|  tended  to  spend  Christmas  there,  but  business  detained  him 
in  New  York.  His  friend,  Dr.  James  Burleigh,  the  noted  spe- 
ialist  for  mental  disorders,  vainly  urged  him  to  make  his  presence 
:nown  in  the  city;  but  Keene  maintained  that  he  would  be  much 
nore  comfortable  with  a  book  and  an  easy  chair  at  the  club, 
i.nd  prepared  to  spend  a  solitary  Christmas.  ■  On  the  morning 
>f  the  twenty- fourth,  however,  he  was  called  to  the  telephone 
;o  assure  the  possessor  of  a  feminine  voice  that  he  really  was 
franklin  Keene — the  Franklin  Keene,  "from  the  beloved  West." 
knowing  of  the  clannishness  of  Californians  in  the  East,  and 
never  having  heard  of  B.  Franklin  Keene,  of  Chicago — he  ad- 
mitted his  identity,  and  was  warmly  urged  to  dine  on  the  follow- 
ng  day  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edward  Logan,  in  Macalac,  a  small 
tfew  Jersey  suburb. 

When  he  seemed  a  little  puzzled,  she  said :  "Oh,  perhaps  you 
lon't  remember  me  as  Mrs.  Logan?  Before  my  marriage  I  was 
jrace  Bennett.  To  be  sure,  we  have  never  actually  met,  but  my 
friends  have  told  me  so  much  about  you,  that  my  husband  and 
nyself  are  eager  to  meet  you." 

(Keene  had  friends  in  San  Francisco  who  spoke  often  of 
i  Miss  Bennett.)  She  rapidly  explained  that  neither  she  nor 
Mr.  Logan  had  any  relatives  in  the  East ;  they  had  asked  two  or 
f:hree  equally  detached  people  to  spend  Christmas  with  them,  and 
jave  him  directions  concerning  the  train  he  was  to  take,  and 
oaid  that  her  husband  would  meet  him  at  their  station. 

Keene  set  off  for  the  suburbs,  at  midday  on  Christmas,  with  a 
sense  of  amused  anticipation. 

As  the  train  started  after  one  of  its  many  stops,  he  heard, 
"Oh!    this    is    my  station!"  and    turned  to  see  a  pretty,  well- 


144  WERNER'S  READINGS 

dressed  young  woman,  a  baby  in  her  arms,  wrenching  open  the 
door  of  the  last  coach.     He  sprang  after  her,  crying: 

"You  can't  do  it!" 

"I  tell  you  I  must!" 

"Then  give  me  the  baby !" 

He  seized  the  child  and  swung  himself  from  the  now  rap- 
idly moving  train.  Once  sure  of  his  footing,  he  looked  about 
for  the  young  woman,  to  discover  her  standing  on  the  back 
platform  beating  the  hand-rail  and  stretching  out  her  arms  to 
the  baby  as  the  train  passed  out  of  sight. 

"Well,  I'll — be — hanged!"  gasped  Keene. 

"Yaa-a-a-a-a-ah !"  responded  the  baby. 

"Here!     Hi!     Suffering  cats!    what's  the  matter  with  you!" 

Fearfully  clutching  the  long  draperies  where  they  seemed 
most  solid,  he  eventually  succeeded  in  bringing  the  struggling 
infant  to  an  upright  position,  only  to  be  terrified  by  the  increas- 
ing violence  of  its  contortions.  He  was  a  bachelor  of  thirty-eight 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  no  human  mechanism  could  long  with- 
stand such  strain  as  that  baby  now  proceeded  to  put  upon  itself. 

In  vain  he  jiggled  it,  saying,  "There,  there!  Quit  that! 
'Sh-sh — 'sh!     Confound  that  woman!     Why  didn't  she  jump?" 

Placing  his  hands  firmly  about  the  child's  body,  he  lifted 
it  high  above  his  head,  rolling  it  slightly  to  and  fro.  At  the 
same  time  he  gurgled  :  "Googly — googly — googly — goo !  Kee- 
chery — keechery — tschk !  Tschk  !  Whee — ketchum  !"  but  the 
baby's  vehemence  in  no  wise  abated. 

"Here!  Don't  go  on  like  that!"  he  begged.  "Good  Lord! 
Are  you  going  to  have  spasms?     What  shall  I  do?" 

Not  since  a  Thanksgiving  day,  years  before,  when  he  had 
realized  that  nothing  but  his  kicking  could  save  his  beloved  'var- 
sity team  from  ignominious  defeat  on  the  gridiron,  had  he  known 
anything  so  nearly  resembling  terror. 

"Yah!    Yi !    Yah!"  spluttered  his  charge.     "Yaa-a-a-a-aie !" 

He  caught  sight  of  a  man  leaving  the  station.  "Hey,  there ! 
-?.  you  the  station  agent?" 


AND  REGIT  A  TIONS  NO.  39.  145 

"Um-h'm !" 

"Have  you  any  idea  whose  baby  this  is?" 

"No"   (suspiciously).     "Ain't  it  yours?" 

"It  is  not!" 

"How'd  you  come  by  it,  then?" 

"A  young  woman  was  going  to  jump  off  that  train  with  it. 
To  save  her  a  fall  I  took  the  child  and  swung  off,  and — she 
lidn't.     She  was  carried  on." 

The  man  grinned.  "Done  you  to  a  turn,  didn't  she? 
Christmas,  too!" 

"Not  at  all !"  protested  Keene.  "She  was  not  at  all  that 
;ort  of  person.     Here,  you're  married,  ain't  you?;' 

"Um-h'm." 

"Don't  you  want  to  take  this  poor  little  beggar  home, 
md " 

"You  bet  I  don't." 

"Listen !     I'll  pay  you  well,  and  the  mother " 


"Not  much  you  don't!  That's  your  game,  is  it?  Well,  I'm 
on  to  you  all  right !  And  see  here,"  he  added  threateningly, 
"don't  you  go  leaving  that  kid  in  the  station  and  skipping 
jout.     This  here  depot  ain't  no  foundling  asylum !" 

"I  certainly  shouldn't  desert  the  child,"  said  Keene  with 
dignity. 

"No?"  the  man  leered  unpleasantly-  "Well,  anyhow,  you 
won't  do  it  here,  see?" 

He  turned  to  the  door  of  the  little  station  and  locked  it. 

"What  are  you  doing?  Open  that  door!  I'm  going  to  wait 
for " 

"Oh,  no,  jou  ain't!      You're  going  to  hit  the  pike." 
"But  I  tell  you  that  woman  will  be  back  on  the  next  train, 
and  she'll " 

"Oh,   sure!"    (sardonically").     "But  there  ain't  going  to  be 
any  more  trains  till  night." 
"What?" 


146  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"Nope.  First  north-bound  train  from  this  station,  five- 
twenty-three.     First  south-bound  train,  six-twelve." 

"But  I'm  due  now  in  Macalac — how  far  is  that?" 

"Next  station.     Five  miles  by  the  road,  three  by  the  track." 

"I'm  expected  there  to  dine." 

"Oh,  sure !  Say,  you're  the  real  thing,  ain't  you  ?  Well, 
it's  the  pike  for  yours.     Now  skip !" 

Indignation,  appeal,  bribery,  and  threats  proved  alike  un- 
availing. Keene  learned  that  the  only  telegraph-office  in  the 
village  was  in  the  station,  and  that  the  operator  had  gone  to 
Newark  for  the  afternoon.  The  station-telephone  was  out  of 
order  and  the  "store"  was  closed.     There  was  no  livery  stable. 

He  resolved  to  appeal  to  some  kind-hearted  woman  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  took  himself  to  a  near-by  cottage. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  gaunt,  middle-aged  woman. 

"Madam,  this  child's  mother  has  been  accidentally  carried 
on  to  the  next  station.  She  will  return  as  soon  as  possible. 
Would  you  be  willing  to  care  for  the  child  until  she  comes  back!1" 

"Whose  baby  is  it?" 

"I — I  don't  know."  The  woman  partially  closed  the  door. 
"I  saw  this  lady  about  to  get  off  a  moving  train.  To  save  her 
from  a  fall  I  took  the  child  and  jumped,  and  I  have  an  engage- 
ment in  Macalac — and  it  may  be  an  hour  or  more  before  the 
mother  can  get  back." 

"Yes,  I  guess  it'll  be  all  that." 

"But,  madam !  it's  very  cold — and  the  child  is  crying." 

"I  ain't  deef." 

"Won't  you  at  least  let  me  have  a  glass  of  milk  for  it?  I'll 
pay " 

"A  glass  o'  milk !  Land  o'  love !  You  don't  think  a  young 
one  o'  that  age  drinks  milk,  do  you  ?  My  advice  to  you,  young 
man,  is  to  take  that  poor,  sufferin'  child  back  to  wberever  you  got 
it  from,  just  as  soon  as  the  Lord'll  let  you.  You've  got  enough 
to  answer  for  now,  'thout  addin'  murder."  With  that  she  closed 
the  door. 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  39.  147 

The  station  agent,  leaning  on  the  fence,  clenched  an  ugly 
fist.  "You're  mighty  slick,  comin'  into  a  quiet  country  village 
with  your  high  hat  and  your  paytent-leathers,  and  your  story 
about  a  distracted  mother.  Christmas,  too !  But  we  ain't  such 
■hayseeds  as  we  mebbe  look,  and  your  story  ain't  good  enough.  You 
might  find  some  soft-hearted  woman  to  believe  it,  and  you  ain't 
goin'  to  get  the  chance  to  fool  her.  You're  goin'  to  hike — right 
now !" 

"All  right,"  said  Keere,  "I'm  going  up  the  track.  If  the 
mother  comes  back  by  the  road,  you  tell  her  that  I've  taken  the 
child  to  Mrs.  Edward  Logan's,  of  Macalac.  Will  you  remember 
that?" 

"I'll  remember  that  fast  enough  when — she  comes." 

So  Keene  turned  his  face  to  the  sharp  north  wind  and  set 
off  on  his  three-mile  tramp  up  the  track. 

The  station  agent  went  to  a  neighbor's  telephone  and  held  a 
short  conversation  with  Mrs.   Logan,  of   Macalac. 

On  the  road  Keene  saw  sundry  vehicles,  but  from  none  of 
them  came  the  eager  signal  for  which  he  hopefully  watched.  On 
the  tracks  nothing  passed  except  an  express-train,  hurling  itself 
southward,  and  he  could  not  know  it  had  been  flagged  at  Macalac, 
and  was  preparing  to  stop  at  the  station  he  had  just  left. 

Once  he  paused  to  fumble  for  the  little  hands  under  the 
white  cloak,  and  finding  them  cold,  he  stripped  off  his  heavy 
overcoat,  wrapped  it  around  the  child,  and  strode  on  into  the  teeth 
of  the  bitter  wind.  Soothed  by  the  warmth  and  lulled  by  the 
swing  of  his  quick  gait,  the  baby  finally  slept.  The  wind  grew 
colder  and  Keene  ravenously  hungry ;  and  so,  at  last,  they  came 
to  Macalac  station,  to  find  it  entirely  deserted.  Then  for  the 
first  time  Keene  shared  momentarily  the  suspicions  of  the  station 
agent. 

He  saw  a  phaeton  coming  down  one  of  the  roads,  and 
walked  toward  it. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "but  can  you  direct  me  to 
the    house    of    Mr.    Edward    Logan?"     The    baby    whimpered 


148  WERNERS  READINGS 

slightly,  and  the  young  woman  in  the  phaeton  turned  startled 
eyes  toward  the  muffled  figure  in  Keene's  arms. 

"Logan?"  said  the  young  fellow  driving.  "It's  the  new 
house — the  first  to  the  left  after  you  turn  the  curve  yonder." 

"Thank  you,''   said  Keene. 

"Yaa-a-a-a-aie !"  contributed  the  baby.  li 

The  boy  in  the  phaeton  twitched  the  reins,  but  his  sister 
laid  restraining  fingers  on  his  arm. 

"Oren  !     Listen  !     That  sounds  like  Brudder  !" 

"Well,  I've  always  told  you  and  Ethel  that  all  babes  sound 
alike." 

"Yaa-a-a-a-aie !"  came  down  the  wind  to  them. 

"That  is  Brudder !"  cried  the  girl  turning  to  spring  out. 

"Oh,  Tommy !"  He  held  her  arm.  "How  could  it  be 
Brudder  ?     Don't  be  an  idiot,  Florence  \" 

"Oren,  will  you  turn  around  and  follow  that  man?  Or  shall 
I  get  out?" 

Meanwhile  Keene  swung  along  at  a  brisk  gait  to  the  Logan's. 

At  the  door  the  servant  looked  curiously  at  him,  and  event- 
ually admitted  him,   doubtfully,  to  a  reception-hall.     He  heard  | 
laughing  voices  in  an  adjoining  room,  and  eagerly   sniffed  the 
mingled  aromas  of  coffee  and  tobacco  as  he  sank  into  a  chair. 

"Yah !  Yah !  Yaa-a-a-a-a-aie !"  demanded  the  baby. 
Sounds  in  the  next  room  suddenly  ceased. 

"Has  he  come,  Katie?"  asked  the  voice  he  had  heard  over 
the  telephone.  The  maid's  reply  was  lost  in  another  outburst 
from  his  ward. 

The  curtains  parted,  and  a  tall,  clean- featured  man  entered 
the  hall. 

"Good  evening, "  said  he. 

Keene  arose,  the  whimpering  baby  still  cradled  in  his  arm. 
He  told  briefly  the  story  of  the  morning,  concluding : 

"And  I  could  see  but  one  solution  of  the  trouble;  and  that 
was,  to  come  here  and  throw  myself  and  the  baby  on  your  hos- 
pitality." 


h 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  39.  149 

"Y-yes,"  said  Logan,  reflectively.  "We  heard  you  were 
oming." 

"You  heard?" 

"The  station  agent  telephoned.  He  said  you  were  a  smooth 
•reposition,  but  I  hadn't  looked  for  anything  quite  as  clever  as 
his.  You  see,  Mr. — er — Keene,  the  only  flaw  in  your  story  lies 
iin  the  fact  that  the  real  Franklin  Keene  is  already  here.  Keene, 
vill  you  step  into  the  hall  a  moment,  please?" 

There  entered  then  a  slender  young  man,  with  scanty  hair 
:nd  a  lean  countenance. 

"This  is  Mr.  Franklin  Keene,"  continued  Logan.  "Now,  it 
vould  interest  me  very  much  to  learn  how  you  knew  that  we 
ixpected  Mr.  Keene  here  to-day?" 

"Mrs.  Logan  telephoned  me  at  the  club " 

"She  telephoned,  certainly ;  but "  he  turned  to  the  other 

nan,  "didn't  you  talk  to  her  over  the  'phone  yesterday  morning?" 

Mrs.  Logan  pulled  aside  the  curtains  and  stood  by  her  hus- 
?and. 

"No,"  replied  the  lean  one,  "you  asked  me  yourself  when 
;ve  met " 

"Yes,  but  she  had  already  telephoned " 

"Not  to  me." 

"So  you" — to  the  California:! — "got  that  message?  Are  you 
1  member  of  the  club?" 

"Only  temporarily.    I  am  the  guest  there  of  Doctor  Burleigh." 

"Of  Doctor — ah!" — Logan's  tone  suggested  that  many  things 
had  suddenly  been  made  clear  to  him — "Dr.  James  Burleigh?" 

"Oh,  that  poor  little  baby !"  Mrs.  Logan  impulsively  took 
the  child,  cuddled  it,  and  retreated  to  her  husband's  side. 

Logan  continued,  in  a  changed  tone:     "I  see,  I  see." 

The  door-bell  whirred  shrilly. 

"I  want  to  see  Mrs.  Logan !"  demanded  an  excited  girl's 
voice.     "I  saw  a  man  with  a  baby " 

Those  in  the  hall  turned  at  the  interruption. 

"It  is  Brudder!     It  is  Brudder!"     Florence  had  darted  to 


150  WERNER'S  READINGS 

the  baby,  and  now,  clasping  him  to  her  breast,  confronted  Keem 
panting:    "Where  is  my  sister?" 

"Your  sister!"  repeated  Keene. 

"This  is  her  baby,  where  is  she?'' 

"Oh !  thank  heaven  !" 

"Where  is  she?" 

"I  haven't  the  faintest  idea — but  I'm  afraid  she's  some 
where  between  here  and  the  next  village — and  I'm  afraid  she 
frightened,"  he  gently  added.  Then  he  told  the  story  again,  ver 
quietly,  to  Florence  Faulkner. 

"Why,  Ned,"  whispered  Mrs.  Logan,  "do  you  really  thin 
he's  insane?" 

He  nodded,  "Unquestionably,  I'm  afraid." 

"Look  here,"  demanded  the  college  boy,  Oren,  "are  yo 
telling  this  straight?  Because  if  my  sister" — he  hesitated  unde 
the  blazing  indignation  of  Keene's  glance. 

"I  don't  think  you  need  be  alarmed  about  Mrs.  Gerard 
safety,  Faulkner,"  said  Logan,  quickly.  "Have  we  explained  t 
you  that  we  have  two  Mr.  Keenes  here?  One  is  a  friend  froi 
the  West  and  the  other  is  a  guest"  (significantly)  "of  Dr.  Jamt 
Burleigh." 

"Oh !"  gasped  Florence.  "Oh,  mercy !"  and  she  clasped  he 
nephew  closer. 

"Good  Lord !"  cried  Keene.    "Of  course,  I'm  his  guest !    Bt 
I'm  not  his  patient,  if  that's  what  you  mean!     We  were  roon I 
mates  at  college.     We  played  on  the  same " 

"Yes,  that's  all  right.  We  all  understand  that  perfecth 
Now,  don't  let's  get  excited." 

"Excited!     Man!     I'm  as  sane  as I'm  a  whole  lot  sanej; 

than  you  are !" 

"Of  course,"  Logan  laughed  easily. 

"Oh,  poor  Ethel !"  sobbed  Florence.  She  turned  a  tear-we 
face  to  Keene.  "Tell  me  truly!  Did  you  get  of!  that  trai 
with  the  baby  to  save  Ethel  ?" 

"Truly,  I  did." 


J 


V 


C 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  39.  151 

For  a  moment  she  looked  into  his  eyes;  then  she  laid  her 
inds  in  his.  "I  believe  you ;  because,  you  see,  you  took  off  your 
■>at  to  wrap  the  baby  in." 

"Bless  your  heart  !"  said  he,  "you're  all  right!  Now, 
Mtie  on,  Mr.  Faulkner ;  we'll  go  and  find  your  other  sister, 
nd  when  Jim  Burleigh  gets  back/'  Keene  addressed  Logan,  "111 
;t  him  to  give  me  a  certificate  of  mental  soundness,  and  then 
11  be  in  a  position  to  ask  you  what  part  of  California  your 
ranklin  Keene  comes  from." 

"California!"  cried  Mrs.  Logan. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  from  the  coast,"  said  the  lean  one.  "Chicago's 
ly  home." 

Keene  turned  a  bewildered  face  to  th«  hostess.  "You  said 
California,  didn't  you?" 

"Did  I  ?  Oh,  no,  I  couldn't !  I  must  have  said  'the  beloved 
/est.'     That's  what  I  call  it." 

Meanwhile  young  Faulkner  had  been  muttering  to  himself : 
California.  Cali — Keene — of  California!  Keene — of  Califor- 
nia ?"  and  now  broke  out  sharply : 

"See  here;  what  was  your  college?" 

Keene  mentioned  his  Alma  Mater. 

"Why,  say!  You're  not — you're  never  'Kicking  Keene  of 
92' !" 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"You  are?  You  are?"  The  boy  seized  him  by  both  hands. 
Why,  people,  this  man  was  one  of  the  greatest  football  players 

ilis  country  ever — why  he  kicked  five  goals  running " 

1       "No,  I  didn't.     It  was  only  four." 

"I  know  all  about  him!  Crazy  nothin'!  He's  Keene — the 
'Ceene.     Keene,  of  California!" 

Nobody  but  the  maid  had  heard,  the  door -bell,  but  they  all 
deard  the  mother's  cry  as  she  ran  to  gather  in  her  boy. 

When  the  excitement  had  cooled  a  little,  somebody  discov- 
ered Keene's  famished  condition,  and  there  ensued  much  rivalry 
o  make  him  comfortable.  The  first  thing  they  brought  him  was 
iquid,  and  he  looked  over  the  glass  at  young  Faulkner,  asking: 


152  WERNERS  READINGS 

"What  do  you  call  that  boy?" 

"His  small  sister  has  dubbed  him  'Brudder,'  and  that  goes 
while  the  rest  of  us  squabble  over  whether  he  shall  be  named 
Scott,  after  his  father,  or  Richard,  after  his  grandfather,  or  Oren, 
after  his  other  grandfather  and  me.  But  I  can  tell  you  one 
thing.  After  to-night — and  I  know  Florence  and  Ethel  will  back 
me  up  in  it — after  to-night  my  vote  goes  for  Franklin  Keene!" 


BOY'S  IDEA   OF    CHRISTMAS. 


Lulu  M.  Rorke. 


[Written  expressly  for  this  book.] 

THEY  called  this   "Merry  Christmas/' 
But  it  wasn't  merry  for  me, 
For  everything  I  did  all  day 
Was  as  bad  as  bad  could  be. 

But  that's  only  what  the  grown  folks  said— 
I  don't  think  they  always  know ; 

For  if  little  boys  are  such  awful  bad  things, 
Why  does  God  let  them  grow? 

Now,  because  when  I  saw  Santa  Claus 

Hurrying  through  the  door, 
I  took  my  bow  and  arrow, 

And  shot  him  in  the  jaw. 

For  I  said  Fd  watch  and  catch  him, 

If  I   stayed  awake  all  night. 
'N  when  I  shot  Old  Santa 

It  gave  him  a  terrible  fright. 

Well,  ma  said    "It  was  naughty;" 

In  fact,  she  was  mad : 
"For  me  to  start  Christmas  day, 

To  be  so  awful  bad." 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  39.  153 

Then,  when  I  put  on  my  new  skates, 

And  skated  on  the  polished  floor , 
Lassoed  all  the  ornaments 

Shot  through  the  glass  in  the  door, 

I   didn't  think  it  was  wicked, 

And   I   don't   think   so  now; 
But  they  all  scolded  me  like  fury, 

And  kicked  up  a  terrible  row. 

So  that's  why  I  don't  like  Christmas 

And  don't  think  it  a  merry  day 
When  a  boy  is  scolded  from  morn  till  night 

Just  'cause  he  wants  to  play. 

If  they'd  only  give  me  the  presents 

And  let  me  alone,  oh,  gee ! 
It  would  be  the  happiest  day  of  all 

And  you'd  see  how  good  I'd  be. 


PRESIDENT  ROOSEVELT'S   1907  THANKSGIVING 
PROCLAMATION. 


|f"\NCE  again  the  season  of  the  year  has  come  when  in  accord- 
'V-/  ance  with  the  custom  of  our  forefathers  for  generations 
past,  the  President  appoints  a  day  as  the  especial  occasion  for  all 
our  people  to  give  praise  and  thanksgiving  to  God. 

During  the  past  year  we  have  been  free  from  famine,  from 
[ pestilence,  from  war.  We  are  at  peace  with  all  the  rest  of  man- 
Ikind.  Our  natural  resources  are  at  least  as  great  as  those  of 
any  other  nation.  We  believe  that  in  ability  to  develop  and  take 
advantage  of  these  resources  the  average  man  of  this  nation 
stands  at  least  as  high  as  the  average  man  of  any  other.     No- 


154  WERNER'S  READINGS 

where  else  in  the  world  is  there  such  an  opportunity  for  a  free 
people  to  develop  to  the  fullest  extent  all  its  powers  of  body 
of  mind,  and  of  that  which  stands  above  both  body  and  mind 
character. 

Much  has  been  given  us  from  on  high  and  much  will  rightl) 
be  expected  of  us  in  return.  Into  our  care  the  ten  talents  hav( 
been  intrusted  and  we  are  to  be  pardoned  neither  if  we  squandei 
and  waste  them  nor  yet  if  we  hide  them  in  a  napkin,  for  the) 
must  be  fruitful  in  our  hands.  Ever  throughout  the  ages,  a 
all  times  and  among  all  peoples,  prosperity  has  been  fraugh 
with  danger,  and  it  behooves  us  to  beseech  the  Giver  of  Al 
Things  that  we  may  not  fall  into  love  of  ease  and  of  luxury 
that  we  may  not  lose  our  sense  of  moral  responsibility;  tha 
we  may  not  forget  our  duty  to  God  and  to  our  neighbor. 

A  great  democracy  like  ours,  a  democracy  based  upon  th 
principles  of  orderly  liberty,  can  be  perpetuated  only  if  in  th 
heart  of  the  ordinary  citizen  there  dwells  a  keen  sense  of  right 
eousness  and  justice.  We  should  earnestly  pray  that  this  spiri 
of  righteousness  and  justice  may  grow  ever  greater  in  the  heart 
of  all  of  us,  and  that  our  souls  may  be  inclined  evermore  bot 
toward  the  virtues  that  tell  for  gentleness  and  tenderness,  fo 
loving  kindness  and  forbearance  one  with  another,  and  towar 
those  no  less  necessary  virtues  that  make  for  manliness  an 
rugged  hardihood,  for  without  these  qualities  neither  nation  nc 
individual  can  rise  to  the  level  of  greatness. 

Now,  therefore,  I,  Theodore  Roosevelt,  President  of  th 
United  States,  do  set  apart  Thursday,  the  twenty-eighth  day  c 
November,  as  a  day  of  general  thanksgiving  and  prayer,  and  o 
that  day  I  recommend  that  the  people  shall  cease  from  thei 
daily  work,  and  in  their  homes  or  in  their  churches  meet  devoutl 
to  thank  the  Almighty  for  the  many  and  great  blessings  the 
have  received  in  the  past,  and  to  pray  that  they  may  be  give 
the  strength  so  to  order  their  lives  as  to  deserve  a  continuatio 
of  these  blessings  in  the  future. 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  39. 
"GREEN   GROW   THE   RUSHES  O." 


William   Edward  Penny 


WHEN    I   was   about   eighteen   year   old, 
'Nd  winter  evenin's  long  'nd  cold 
Came  'round,  'nd  sleighin'  got  real  good, 
My  gal  would  put  on  cloak  and  hood, 
'Nd  I  would  hitch  up  our  old  Fan. 
I'd  ruther  have  her  than  the  span, 
Because  I  wanted  one  arm  free, 
Fer-fer-fer  drivin',  don't  you  see. 
Then  when  I  drew  up  tu  the  gate 
She'd  say  I  was  "A  leetle  late;" 
In  sich  a  way,  tu  let  me  see 
She'd  been  a-waitin'  thar   fer  me. 
'Nd  then  we'd  dash  away,  away, 
With  chimin'  bells  in  old  red  sleigh; 
Singin'  a  song  out  o'er  the  snow, 
About  "Green  grow  the  rushes  O." 

'Nd  when  we  reached  the  house  whar  they 
Were  havin'  of  a  grand  swaray, 
Or  soshyble,  or  dance  or  sich, 
We'd  drive  inter  the  barn  'nd  hitch. 
Then  carry  tu  the  house  a  pile 
O'  fodder  that'd  make  you  smile; 
A  milk-pan  full  o'  biscuits  and 
Another  full  o'  doughnuts,  and 
Another  full  o'  pickles,  and 
Another  full  o'  chicken,  and — 
Well,  never  mind  about  that  are, 
We'd  lug  it  in,  then  skip  upstair; 
Throw  off  our  wraps  'nd  then  we'd  run, 
Downstairs  all  ready  for  some  fun ; 
And  jine  the  young  folks,  cheeks  aglow, 
Singin'  "Green  grow  the  rushes  O" 


156  WERNER'S  READINGS 

The  old   folks    in  another  room, 

Would  sit  as  solemn  as  the  tomb; 

The  men  about  their  crops  would  speak; 

The  wimmen  though' d  slyly  peep 

In  through  the  door  'nd  watch  their  boys 

'Nd  gals,  'nd  laugh  tu  hear  the  noise; 

Fer  vvimmen's  hearts  don't  grow  old 

Like  men's,  likewise  they  don't  grow  cold, 

Though  years  may  top  their  heads  with  snow, 

I've  had  a  mother  'nd   I  know. 

What  fun  we  had,  my  gal  and  I ; 

As  'round  inside  the  ring  we'd  fly. 

She'd  make  pretense  to  run  away, 

But  still  I  allers  won  the  day, 

'Nd  got  life's  sweetest  kiss  I  know, 

Playin'  "Green  grow  the  rushes  O." 

'Nd  then  the  ride  hum  in  the  night, 
Under  the  stars  all  shinin'  bright. 
We  didn't  hurry  on  our  way, 
Because  we — we  had  lots  to  say, 
'Nd  we  two  nicely  filled  the  seat, 
'Nd,  oh,  how  fair  she  was,  how  sweet! 
That  face  I  never  can  forget; 
I  shet  my  eyes  'nd  see  it  yet. 
One  evenin'  when  I  drove  around 
Tu  take  my  sweetheart  out  tu  town, 
The  doctor's  sleigh  was  thar,  'nd  I 
Was  told  the  gal  I  loved  must  die — 
My  little  sweetheart  dying  there! 
No  more  I'd  see  her  face  so  fair, 
Or  hear  her  voice  so  soft  and  low 
Singin'  "Green  grow  the  rushes  O." 

Well,  that  was  sixty  year'  ago. 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  3Q.  157 

SUE'S  THANKSGIVING. 


Lucy  Marian  Blinn. 


"  To-morrow'll  be  Thanksgiving,"  said  merry  little  Sue, 
'  Mother  is  making  puddings  and  pies,  and  there's  ever  so  much 

to  do. 
And  Mary  is  coming — the  darling  !  and  Nell  with  her  baby-boy 
And  dear  old  grandpa  and  brother  Tim — oh,  my  !  I  am  wild  with 

joy! 

'  One  year  ago  poor  grandma  came  ;  but  her  face  was,  oh,  so 

white ! 
And  she  trembled  so,  and  talked  so  low,  I  cried  with  all  my  might. 
She  said  when  this  Thanksgiving  came,  and  we  placed  the  chairs 

around, 
Hers  would  be  empty  and  her  dear  face  be  under  the  frozen 

ground. 

"  And  now  it's  true,  and  J  know  I'll  cry  wl:  zry  I  see  poo^  grandpa 

stand 
Alone  at  the  head  of  the  table,  while  h  ?  Ajrays  with  uplifted  hand ; 
IFor  grandma  always  stood  there,  too,  and  said  a  sweet '  Amen  ! ' 
'Twill  seem  as  if  we  all  must  wait  till  we  hear  her  voice  again. 

"  Oh,  that  cunning  little  boy  of  Nell's  !  I  don't  know  how  to  wait 
Till  I  see  their  carriage  come  over  the  hill  and  stop  before  the  gate. 
"She  wrote  about  such  funny  things  the  little  rogue  would  do  ; 
When  she  asks  him  who  he  loves  the  best,  he  says,  just  as  plain, 
'Aunt  Sue.' 

' "  And  Tim  has  let  his  whiskers  grow — I  know  he'll  be  a  fright ! 
II  know  just  how  he'll  tease  me,  too,  from  morning  until  night ; 
I  He'll  catch  me  up  in  his  great  strong  arms,  and  run  up-stairs  and 

down, 
And  rub  my  cheeks,  to  make  them  red,  with  his  beard  so  rough 

and  brown. 


158  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"  I  know  just  what  Aunt  Mary '11  say  :  '  Why,  Sue,  how  thee  does 

growl 
Does  thee  grow  better  as  thee  grows  tall  ?    I'd  very  much  like  to 

know.' 
Dear  auntie  1  she  always  looks  so  good,  and  has  such  a  pleasant 

smile, 
Just  as  if  they  had  Thanksgiving  at  her  house  all  the  while. 

"  I  must  thank  the  Lord  for  my  parents  kind,  and  these  friends 

beside ; 
For  grandpa  and  darlingf grandma — oh  I   I  wish  she  hadn't  died  \ 
But  I'll  thank  Him  because  I  had  her  once,  and  ask  Him  not  to  take 
Any  more  angels  from  our  house,  for  the  dear  Christ  Jesus'  sake, 

"  I  think  I'll  stand  where  grandma  stood,  close  by  her  empty 

chair ; 
And  grandpa'll  lay  his  dear  old  hand  so  softly  on  my  hair, 
While  he  prays  a  beautiful,  loving  prayer  to  the  Father  in  Heaven  ; 

and  then 
I'll  bow  my  head  and  whisper  to  God,   'For  grandma's  sake, 

Amen!"' 


SHE  GOT  IT. 


Ella  Gertrude  Gustam. 


THEY  were  walking  through  the  grave-yard, 
Reading  inscriptions  on  tombstones, 
Some  half  effaced,  which  made  it  hard 
To  tell  who  once  had  owned  the  bones. 

"What  kind  of  stone  do  you  like,  Beth?" 

He  asked  of  the  maiden  so  fair. 
Her  answer  took  awav  his  breath; 

She  simply  said :    "A  solitaire.'' 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  jg.  159 

JOSIAH   ALLEN'S   POLITICAL   ASPIRATIONS. 


Marietta  Holley. 


JOSIAH  ALLEN  would  spend  hours  tellin'  me  what  he  wus 
goin'  to  do  when  he  got  to  Washington,  if  he  should  be 
elected  senator.     Says  he : 

''Now,  there's  political  economy;  I  shall  go  in  for  that. 
I  shall  say  right  out  to  Congress,  the  first  speech  I  make,  that 
there  is  too  much  money  spent  to  buy  votes  with.  And  I  shall 
prove  it,  that  we  can  get  votes  cheaper  if  we  senators  all  join  in 
together  and  put  our  feet  down  that  we  won't  pay  only  so  much 
for  a  vote.  As  long  as  one  man  is  willin'  to  pay  high,  why  every- 
body else  has  to  follow  suit,  and  there  ain't  no  economy  in  that, 
not  a  mite.  Then  there  is  the  canal  question.  I'll  make  a  thor- 
ough end  of  that." 

"How  will  you  do  it?"  says  I. 

Says  he,  "I  will  have  the  whole  canal  cleaned  out  from  one 
end  to  the  other." 

"I  wus  a-readin'  only  yesterday  about  the  corruption  of  the 
canal  question,"  says  I,  "but  I  didn't  suppose  it  meant  that." 

"That's  because  you  ain't  a  man.  You  hain't  got  the  mind 
to  grasp  these  big  questions.  The  corruption  of  the  canal  means 
the  bottom  of  the  canal  is  all  covered  over  with  dead  cats  and 
things ;  and  it  ort  to  be  seen  to  by  men  that  is  capable  of  seein' 
to  such  things !  It  ort  to  be  cleaned  out.  And  I  am  the  man  that 
has  got  the  mind  for  it.  Then  there  is  the  Star  Route.  Nothin'  but 
blamed  foolishness  from  beginnin'  to  end.  They  might  have 
knowed  they  couldn't  make  any  road  through  the  stars.  Why, 
the  very  Bible  is  agin  it !  The  ground  is  good  enough  for  me. 
Nothin'  but  dumb  foolishness,  and  so  Uncle  Nate  Gowdy  said  it 
wus.  He  got  to  talkin'  of  it  yesterday,  and  he  said  it  wus  a  pity 
wimmen  couldn't  vote  on  it.  He  said  it  would  be  jest  about  what 
they  would  like  to  vote  for.  He  talked  awful  smart  about  wim- 
men's  votin'.    He  said  any  man  was  a  fool  to  think  that  wimmen 


160  WERNER'S  READINGS 

would  ever  have  the  requisite  grasp  of  intellect  and  the  knowl- 
edge of  public  affairs  that  would  render  her  a  competent  voter. 
I  tell  you,  you  have  got  to  understand  things  to  tackle  politics. 
Politics  takes  deep  study.  Now,  there  is  the  tariff  question,  and 
the  revenue.  I  shall  most  probably  favor  'em  and  push  'em  right 
through/' 

"How,"  says  I. 

"Oh,  wall !  a  woman  most  probable  couldn't  understand  it. 
But  I  shall  push  'em  forward  all  I  can,  and  lift  'em  up." 

"Where  to?"  says  I. 

"Oh,  keepin'  a-askin'  and  a-naggin' !  That's  what  wears  out 
us  public  men — wimmen's  questionin'." 

"Specially  when  they  don't  know  what  to  answer.  Josiah 
Allen,  you  don't  know  this  minute  what  tariff  means,  or  reve- 
nue, either." 

"Wall,  I  know  what  starvation  means,  and  I  know  what 
vitles  means ;   and  I  know  I  am  as  hungry  as  a  bear." 

"And  as  cross,"  says  I.  But  instinctively  I  hung  on  the  tea- 
kettle, and  he  grew  pleasant  agin  in  his  demeanor,  and  says  he : 

"There  will  be  some  abuses  reformed  when  I  get  to  Wash 
ington,  D.  C.  Now,  there  is  the  civil  service  law.  Why,  aj 
Uncle  Nate  said  yesterday,  hired  men  ain't  civil  at  all,  nor  hirei! 
girls  neither.  And  hotel  clerks ;  now,  they  don't  know  what  civi' 
service  is.  Why,  when  Uncle  Nate  went  to  Ohio  last  fall,  h<: 
stayed  over  night  in  a  hotel  in  Cleveland,  and  the  hotel  clerk 
sassed  him  jest  because  he  wanted  to  blow  out  his  light  instead 
of  turnin'  it  off.  And  Uncle  Nate  jest  spoke  right  up  smar 
as  a  whip  and  said  old-fashioned  ways  wus  good  enough  for  him 
and  blowers  wus  made  before  turners  and  he  should  blow  it  out 
And  the  hotel  clerk  threatened  to  make  him  leave.  And  ruthei 
than  make  a  fuss,  Uncle  Nate  turned  it  off  out.  But  Uncle  Nate 
said  it  rankled  deep." 

Josiah  come  in  one  day,  with  Solomon  Cypher's  shovel,  an' 
I  asked  him  what  it  wus,  and  he  said  it  wus  "the  spoils  of  office.' 
And  I  says,  "It  hain't  no  such  thing.  It's  Solomon  Cypher': 
shovel." 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  jg.  161 

"Wall,"  says  he,   "Solomon  has  gone  over  to  the  prohibi- 
tionists, and  if  I  am  goin'  to  enter  political  life,  I  must  begin  to 
|  practice  sometime.     They  all  gets  spoils  of  office.     And  it's  a 
crackin'  good  shovel,  too/' 

"You  are  going  to  carry  that  shovel  right  straight  home, 
Josiah  Allen/'     And  I  made  him  do  it.     The  idea ! 

Another  time  he  wus  gettin'  ready  to  go  to  Jonesville,  and  he 
|  said  to  me : 

"The  old  mare  is  good  enough  for  Jonesville,  Samantha,  but 
when  we  get  to  Washington  we  will  want  something  more  stylish. 
I'm  goin'  to  make  a  show  for  once  in  my  life.     One  thing  I'm 
bound  on — I  shall  drive  tantrum/' 
1  "How?" 

"Why,  I  shall  buy  another  mare,  most  probable  some  gay- 

i  colored  one,  and  hitch  it  before  the  old  white  one,  and  drive  tan- 

1  trum.     Dog-carts  are  stylish,  I  hear :  but  our  old  dog  is  so  dumb 

lazy  you  never  could  get  him  off  a  walk.     But  tantrum  I  will 

\  drive." 

I  mentioned  to  him  that  the  bobbin  of  my  sewing-machine 
was  broke  and  asked  him  to  get  me  another  one  of  the  agent  at 
Jonesville.     And   he   says : 

"Yes,  I  will  tend  to  your  machine ;  ana,  speakin'  of  machines, 
|  that  makes  me  think  of  another  thing  Uncle  Nate  and  I  wus 
.  talkin'  about, — machine  politics.  I  shan't  favor  'em.  What  under 
the  sun  do  they  want  machines  to  make  politics  with,  when  there's 
lots  of  men  willin'  and  more  than  willin'  to  make  'em?  And  it 
j  is  as  expensive  agin.  Machines  come  tarnation  high." 
lit     '    "I  can  understand  you  without  swearin',  Josiah  Allen." 

"  'Tarnation'  ain't  swearin'.    I  shall  use  that  word  most  prob- 
j  able,  in  Washington,  D.  C." 

"Wall,  there  will  have  to  be  some  tea  and  sugar  got." 

"Yes,  I'll  get  some.     But  won't  it  be  handy,  Samantha,  to 

have  free  trade?     Along  in  the  winter  when  the  hens  don't  lay 

and  we  don't  make  butter  to  turn  off,  it  will  come  dreadful  handy 

to  jest  hitch  up  the  mare  and  go  to  the  store,  and  come  home  with 


162  WERATERS  READINGS 

a  lot  of  groceries  of  all  kinds,  and  some  fresh  meat,  mebby;  and 
mebby  some  neckties  of  different  colors."' 

"Who  would  pay  for  'em,  Josiah  Allen  ?" 

"Why  the  government,  of  course." 

"I  can't  believe  that  is  free  trade,  Josiah." 

"That's  because  you're  a  woman.  Free  trade  is  one  of  the 
prerequisites  of  a  senator.  Why,  what  would  a  man  want  to  bz 
a  senator  for  if  he  couldn't  make  by  it?  Wimmen  is  good  enough 
in  their  places,"  says  he,  as  he  comes  to  me  to  button  his  shirt 
sleeves  and  tie  his  cravat,  "but  they  hain't  got  the  hard  horse- 
sense  that  one  has  got  to  have  to  make  money  out  of  the  nation." 

To  change  the  subject,  I  asked  him  where  he  wus  goin'  to  sell 
our  winter  apples,  and  he  says : 

"Wall,  I  shall  probable  have  to  use  the  apples  this  fall  to  buy 
votes  with." 

"To  buy  votes  with?" 

"Yes,  I  lay  out  to  get  lots  of  votes  with  green  apples.  It 
seems  as  if  I  ort  to  get  a  vote  for  a  bushel' of  apples ;  but  there  is 
so  much  iniquitry  and  cheathr  in  politics  now  that  I  may  have  to 
give  a  bushel  and  a  half,  or  even  two  bushels.  And  then  I  shall 
make  a  lot  of  the  smaller  ones  Up  into  hard  cider,  and  use 
'em  to — to  advance  the  interests  of  myself  and  the  nation  in  that 
way.  There  is  a  hull  lot  of  folks,  Uncle  Nate  says,  he  can 
get  to  vote  for  me  by  the  judicious  use  of — wall,  stimulants." 

I  riz  up  and  grasped  holt  of  his  arm. 

"Josiah  Allen,  will  you  put  the  cup  to  your  neighbor's  lips 
for  your  own  gain?" 

"They  hain't  my  neighbors,  and  it  probably  hain't  no  cup 
they'll  drink  out  of.  Them  fellows  like  to  take  it  right  from  the 
bottle  or  jug." 

"To  think  a  human  bein'  would  go  to  work  deliberate  to  get 
a  man  into  a  state  that  is  jest  as  likely  as  not  to  end  in  murder 
or  any  other  crime,  for  gain  to  himself  !" 

"Good  landy,  Samantha!  Why,  I  hain't  seen  you  so  riz  up 
for  years." 

"I  hain't  felt  so.     To  think  of  the  brink  you're  a-standin' 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  3Q.  163 

Dn,  and  jest  a- fallen  off.  I  should  call  it  a  good  deal  more  hon- 
arable  in  you  to  get  drunk  yourself,  and  I  should  think  more  of 
you  if  I  see  you  reeliu  "round  yourself,  than  to  make  other  folks 
reel.  I  should  think  it  was  your  own  reel,  and  you  had  more 
right  to  it  than  to  anybody  else's.  Oh,  to  think  I  should  live  to 
see  the  hour  to  have  my  companion  ready  to  steal,  or  to  be  stole, 
or  knock  down,  or  anything  to  buy  votes  or  to  sell  'era." 


MY    GRAY    GUINEVER. 


Henry  L.  Turner. 


THE  bugles  were  blowing  at  break  of  day, 
As  we  rode  through  the  dawning  light  down  the  highway ; 
The  heart  of  each  trooper  beat  wild  and  high 
As  the  stars  grew  dim  in  the  morning  sky. 

Big  Charley  loomed  up  on  his  bay  at  my  right, 
With  his  brow  grown  stern  and  his  lips  drawn  tight ; 
And  silent  and  grim  rode  Corporal  Tom 
With  a  far-off  look  and  his  heart  away  home. 

Now,  Charley  was  bold  and  strong  and  tall, 
And  his  heart  was  big  as  the  world  and  all ; 
He  was  gentle  and  tender  as  brave  souls  are — 
With  a  tiny  pink  spot  on  his  brow  so  fair. 

'Twas  a  long-ago  kiss  had  rested  there 
And  sent  him  to  suffer,  to  do  and  to  dare; 
And  a  sweet  little  heart,  in  a  Northern  town, 
Was  longing  to  look  in  his  eyes  of  brown, 

While  a  dear  old  head,  with  its  silvery  hair. 
Was  far  away  bowed  in  its  morning  prayer 
"That  the  good  God  would  never  let  evil  thing  come 
To  her  baby,  her  darling,  brave,  Corporal  Tom !" 


164  WERNERS  READINGS 

So  Tom  had  his  mother  and  Charley  his  love, 
But  the  light  of  my  life  was  burning  above; 
Of  home  and  of  kindred — of  love  all  bereft, 
I'd  only  my  gray  mare  Guinever  left. 

We  silently  rode  'neath  the  sheltering  pines 

For  many  a  mile  through  the  enemy's  lines, 

Till  we  passed  a  low  hut  with  its  crumbling  roofs, 

When  we  caught  the  sharp  clatter  of  galloping  hoofs. 

And  out  of  the  woods  rode  a  leader  in  gray, 

And  a  cordon  of  fire  blazed  up  in  our  way; 

But  our  carbines  rang  out,  as  we  drove  with  a  shout 

Through  that  line,  like  a  whirlwind,  and  put  them  to  rout. 

Still  the  bay  at  my  right,  galloped  furiously  on, 
But  his  saddle  was  empty — his  rider  was  gone ; 
For  our  brave-hearted  Charley  lay  pulseless  and  still 
By  the  break  in  the  roadway  just  under  the  hill. 

And  the  tiny  pink  spot  on  his  marble  brow 

Was  dyeing  the  earth  a  deep  crimson  now. 

Ah,  the  sweet  lips  of  love  had  but  sealed  him  for  heaven ; 

For  the  bullet  had  sped  where  the  kiss  had  been  given. 

Over  fences  and  fields,  over  valley  and  hill ; 
Dashed  we  on,  Tom  and  I,  whilst  the  foe  shot  to  kill; 
,     Till,  off  at  the  left,  came  a  ringing  report, 
And  death  found  its  way  to  the  Corporal's  heart. 

From  the  rear  and  both  flanks  the  gray  troopers  came  on. 
Both  comrades  were  down,  and  I — I  alone, 
Must  save  the  brave  fellows  who  bade  me  good-bye. 
I  must  fight,  I  must  ride,  but  I  must  not  die. 


AND  RECtTA  TIONS  NO.  39,  165 

"Ah,  Guinever,  girl,  do  you  love  your  master  well  ? 

More — a  thousand  times  more — than  you  know  how  to  tell 

Then  run,  pretty  one,  run,  as  never  before, 

And  I'll  love  you  for  aye,  when  the  danger  is  o'er ! 

"Bide  a  bit,  Lady  Queen,  let  him  come,  let  him  come! 
'Tis  the  scoundrel  that  shot  poor  old  Corporal  Tom! 
This  fighting — great  God !  but  it's  ghastly  and  grim ! 
Now  gently  there,  gently,  till  I  settle  with  him. 

"He's  down,  Guinever,  oh,  my  beauty,  my  pet ! 
With  this  blessed  old  carbine  we'll  riddle  them  yet. 
Let  out,  my  brave  girl,  let  out  there,  I  say, 
I'll  fight  them,  I'll  fight  them  whilst  you  run  away. 

"Oh,  Guinever,  Guinever,  hark  to  that  shout — 
The  hell-gates  are  loosed  and  the  damned  are  all  out ! 
Come  on,  you  gray  demons,  come  on,  one  and  all ; 
I'll  lead  you  a  dance  at  a  cavalry  ball. 

"Oh,  bless  you,  my  treasure,  'twas  splendidly  donel 
The  danger's  now  over  the  race  is  well  won. 
If  only  poor  Charley  and  Tom  had  pulled  through 
I  could  laugh  at  the  gray,  for  yonder's  the  blue. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  my  General,  I  did  do  my  best; 
But  was  only  more  lucky,  you  see,  than  the  rest; 
'And  if  justice  were  done,  I  really  think,  sir, 
You'd  promote,  not  myself — but  my  gray  Guinever." 


SHE   WAS   IT. 


Widower.  I've  always  said  that  if  I  married  again  I 
should  choose  a  girl  who  is  as  good  as  she  is  beautiful. 

Miss  Willing.  Really,  this  is  very  sudden,  George;  but  I 
accept  you,  of  course. 


166 


WERNER'S  READINGS 
JAM   POTS. 


Action  Song. 


Characters:     Four  or  eight  little  girls. 

Costume:  Dresses  of  Turkey  red.  Skirts  to  the  floor.  Short 
sleeves  consisting  of  one  large  puff.  A  broad  strip  of  heavy 
dark  brown  carpet  paper  arranged  around  the  waist  just  un- 
der the  arms.  The  paper  may  be  cut  in  strips  so  wide  they 
reach  to  the  waist-line  for  the  first  couple,  a  little  narrower 
for  the  next  couple,  and  so  on.  Each  girl  is  labeled  in  large 
white  letters  pasted  on  the  brown  paper  some  sweet  men- 
tioned in  the  song,  such  as  "Raspberry  Jam,"  "Currant 
Jelly, •"  etc.     Caps  of  the  brown  paper. 

Directions  :  The  girls  march  in  by  twos.  They  make  appro- 
priate gestures  as  they  sing  the  song,  and  while  singing  the 
chorus,  pat  themselves  and  nod  their  heads  right  and  left 
in  time  with  the  music. 

JAM  POTS. 


frK  n 


^ 


•-* 


** — fan — j^- 


m 


3^3: 


m 


4  '  r 


gjfgEgSg^pEgg 


AND  RECITA  TJONS  NO.  jg.  167 

You  may  talk  about  your  groves, 

Where  you  wander  with  your  loves. 
You  may  talk  about  your  moonlit  waves  that  fall  and  flow; 

I  can  tell  you,  if  you  will, 

Of  the  house  upon  the  hill, 
And  the  charming  little  cupboards  where  the  jam  pots  grow, 


Chorus. 

Where  the  jam  pots  grow, 

Where  the  jam  pots  grow, 
Where  the  jelly,  jolly  jelly,  jolly  jam  pots  grow. 

Where  the  jam  pots  grow, 

Where  the  jam  pots  grow, 
Where  the  jelly,  jolly  jelly,  jolly  jam  pots  grow. 


There  the  golden  peaches  shine 

In  their  syrup  clear  and  fine, 
And  the  raspberries  are  shining  in  their  dusky  glow, 

And  the  cherry  and  the  plum 

Beckon  me  to  come 
To  the  charming  little  cupboard  where  the  jam  pots  grow. 

— Chorus. 


There  the  sprightly  pickles  stand, 
And  the  catsup  close  at  hand, 
And  the  marmalade  and  jellies  in  a  goodly  row, 
And  the  quinces'  ruddy  fire 
Would  an  anchorite  inspire 
To.  seek  the  charming  little  cupboards  where  the  jam  pots 
grow. 

— Chorus. 


168  WERNER'S  READINGS 

ELMER    BROWN. 

r  

James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

AWF'LEST  boy  in  this-here  town 
Er  anywheres  is  Elmer  Brown ! 
He'll  mock  you — yes,  an'  strangers,  too 
An'  make  a  face  an'  yell  at  you, — 
"Here's  the  way  you  look!" 

Yes,  an'  wunst  in  school  one  day, 
An'  teacher's  lookin'  wite  that  way, 
He  helt  his  slate,  an'  hide  his  head, 
An'  maked  a  face  at  her,  an'  said,— 
"Here's  the  way  you  look !" 

An' — sir !    when  Rosie  Wheeler  smile 
One  morning  at  him  'crosst  the  aisle, 
He  twist  his  face  all  up,  an'  black 
His  nose  wiv  ink,  an'  whisper  back, — 
"Here's  the  way  you  look !" 

Wunst  when  his  Aunt's  all  dressed  to  call, 
An'  kiss  him  good-bye  in  the  hall, 
An'  latch  the  gate  an'  start  away, 
He  holler  out  to  her  and  say, — 
"Here's  the  way  you  look  !" 

An'  when  his  pa  he  read  out  loud 
The  speech  he  maked,  an'  feel  so  proud 
It's  in  the  paper — Elmer's   Ma 
She  ketched  him — wite  behind  his  Pa, — 
"Here's  the  way  you  look!" 

Nen  when  his  Ma  she  slip  an'  take 
Him  in  the  other  room  an'  shake 
Him  good!    w'y,  he  don't  care — no,  sir!- 
He  ist  look  up  an'  laugh  at  her, — 
"Here's  the  way  you  look  J" 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  39.  169 

ORESTES'S  CHARIOT  RACE. 


[From  Sophocles's  "Electra."] 

ORESTES  journeyed  forth  to  those  great  games  which  Hellas 
counts  her  pride,  to  join  the  Delphic  contests.  He  heard 
the  herald's  voice,  with  loud  command,  proclaim,  as  coming  first, 
the  chariot  race ;  and  so  he  entered  radiant,  every  eye  admiring  as 
he  passed.  And  in  the  race  he  equaled  all  the  promise  of  his 
form  in  those  his  rounds,  and  so  with  noblest  prize  of  conquest 
left  the  ground,  proclaimed  an  Argive.     So  far,  well. 

But  lo !  another  day,  when,  as  the  sun  was  rising,  came  the 
race  swift-footed,  of  the  chariot  and  the  horse,  he  entered  there 
with  many  charioteers ;  one  an  Archaean,  one  from  Sparta,  two 
from  Libya,  who  with  four-horsed  chariots  came,  and  he  with 
these,  with  swift  Thessalian  mares,  came  as  the  fifth;  a  sixth 
with  bright  bay  colts  came  from  -^Etolia;  and  the  seventh  was 
born  in  far  Magnesia;  and  the  eighth,  by  race  an  vEnian,  with 
white  horses,  and  the  ninth  from  Athens  came,  the  city  built 
of  God,  last  a  Boeotian,  tenth  in  order,  came,  and  made  the  list 
complete.  And  so  they  stood — when  the  appointed  umpires  fixed 
by  lot,  and  placed  the  cars  in  order ;  and  with  sound  of  brazen 
trump  they  started.  Cheering  all  their  steeds  at  once,  they  shook 
the  reins,  and  then'  the  course  was  filled  with  all  the  clash  and 
din  of  rattling  chariots,  and  the  dust  rose  high ;  and  all  com- 
mingled, sparing  not  the  goad,  that  each  might  pass  his  neighbor's 
;  axle-trees,  and  the  horses'  hot,  hard  breathing.  And  he,  come 
just  where  the  last  stone  marks  the  course's  goal,  turning  the 
corner  sharp,  and,  letting  go  the  right  hand  trace-horse,  pulled 
tthe  nearer  in;  and  so  at  first  the  chariots  keep  their  course; 
but  then  the  unbroken  colts  the  ^Enian  owned  rush  at  full  speed, 
and,  turning  headlong  back,  just  as  they  closed  their  sixth  round 
or  their  seventh,  dash  their  heads  right  against  the  chariot  wheels 
of  those  who  came  from  Barke.  And  from  thence  each  on  the 
other  crashed,  they  fell  o'erturned,  and  Crissa's  spacious  plain 
was  filled  with  wreck  of  chariots.     Then  the  man  from  Athens, 


170  WERNER'S  READINGS 

skilled  and  wily  charioteer,  seeing  the  mischief,  turns  his  steed 
aside,  at  anchor  rides,  and  leaves  the  whirling  surge  of  man  and 
horse  thus  raging.  Last  of  all,  keeping  his  steeds  back,  waiting 
for  the  end,  Orestes  came.  And  when  he  sees  the  man  from 
Athens  left,  his  only  rival,  then,  with  shaken  rein,  urging  his 
colts,  he  follows,  and  they  twain  drove  onward,  both  together, 
by  a  head,  now  this,  now  that,  their  chariots  gaining  ground ;  and 
all  the  other  rounds  in  safety  passed.  Upright  in  upright  chariot 
still  he  stood,  ill-starred  one ;  then  the  left  rein  letting  loose  just 
as  his  horse  was  turning,  unawares  he  strikes  the  furthest  pillar, 
breaks  the  spokes  right  at  his  axle's  center,  and  slips  down  from 
out  his  chariot,  and  is  dragged  along  with  reins  dissevered.  And, 
when  thus  he  fell,  his  colts  tor;:  headlong  to  the  ground's  mid- 
space  ;  and  when  the  host  beheld  him  fallen  thus  from  off  the 
chariot,  they  bewailed  him  sore,  so  young,  so  noble,  so  unfor- 
tunate, now  hurled  upon  the  ground,  and  now  his  limbs  to  heaven 
exposing.  Then  the  charioteers  full  hardly  keeping  back  the 
rush  of  steeds,  freed  the  poor  corpse  so  bloody,  tftait  not  one 
of  all  his  friends  would  know  him,  and  his  body  they  burnt  upon 
the  pyre ;  and  now  they  bear,  in  a  poor  urn  of  bronze,  his  mighty 
form  reduced  to  ashes,  to  his  fatherland  wailing,  "Orestes,  he  is 
dead,  the  mighty  one !" 


SMALLEST   BOY   IN    SCHOOL. 


I  AM  the  smallest  boy  in  school, 
As  you  can  see,  just  now; 
The  audience  will — I  hope — keep  cool, 
As  thus  I  make  my  bow. 

You  can't  expect  much  of  a  speech 

From  such  a  little  mite: 
Permit  me,  then,  to  bow  to  each, 

And  say  to  all — Good-night! 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  39.  171 

THANKSGIVING   EVE. 


Margaret  Sidney. 


IT  was  Thanksgiving  eve — so  they  said — 
And  hurried  the  children  in  nightgowns  and  caps, 
And  tucked  them  up  warm  in  each  little  bed. 
And  the  snow  fell  down  on  the  old  roof-tree, 
And  kept  them  as  cozy  as  cozy  could  be. 

It  was  Thanksgiving  eve ;  don't  you  think 
The  pies  were  in  rows  on  the  pantry  shelves, 
And  nice  things  to  eat,  and  nice  things  to  drink, 
Resignedly  looked  for  the  morrow  to  bring 
A  miserable  end  to  everything? 

It  was  Thanksgiving  eve,  and  a  noise 

Like  the  whirring  of  wings  in  the  midst  of  the  wood, 

When  the  birds  are  chased  by  the  boys, 

And  a  turkey,  old  and  big  and  plump, 

Got  on  to  his  feet  with  a  clump,  clump,  clump. 

It  was  Thanksgiving  eve,  and  behold ! 

A  brace  of  fat  ducks  hopped  out  of  a  pan, 

And  together  stalked  off  very  bold ; 

And  a  gosling  jumped  down  to  the  old  kitchen  floor ; 

And  they  all  made  off  for  the  door. 

It  was  Thanksgiving  eve,  if  you  please, 

Even  the  chickens  turned  "round  in  the  pie, 

And   stretched   their   legs   at   their   ease. 

And  the  coast  was  clear,  for  the  folks  were  abed, 

So  they  picked  their  way  out  with  a  martial  tread. 


172  WERNERS  READINGS 

It  was  Thanksgiving  eve,  and  alas ! 

Not  a  drumstick  was  left  in  that  kitchen  forlorn 

To  tell  what  had  come  to  pass. 

Not  a  tip  of  a  wing,  nor  a  scrap  of  good  meat 

Was  left  for  those  Thanksgiving  diners  to  eat. 

It  was  Thanksgiving  eve,  and  just  hark! 
A  terrible  sound,  appalling  to  hear, 
Came  pealing  downstairs  in  the  dark. 
"Mamma,  is  it  true?"  cried  a  chorus  in  fright, 
"Ben  says  that  our  dinner's  run  off  in  the  night!" 

It  was  Thanksgiving  eve,  and,  oh,  joy! 

The  wet  little  cheeks  were  tenderly  pressed. 

"Oh  Ben  !  you  ridiculous  boy ! 

You've  been  dreaming !"     Then  what  gay  little  screams  ! 

"It  had  only  gone  off  to  the  No-land  of  Dreams  !" 

"'Cause,  mamma,  no  chickens  that  wished  to  do  right, 

Nor  turkey,  would  really  run  off  in  the  night." 


TOO    YOUNG   TO   KNOW." 


I   ASKED  my  pa  a  simple  thing: 
"Where  holes  in  doughnuts  go?" 
Pa  read  his  paper,  then  he  said : 
"Oh,  you're  too  young  to  know." 

I  asked  my  ma  about  the  wind: 

"Why  can't  you  see  it  blow?" 
Ma  thought  a  moment,  then  she  said: 

"Oh,  you're  too  young  to  know." 

Now,  why  on  earth  do  you  suppose 

They  went  and  licked  me  so? 
Ma  asked:    "Where  is  that  jam?"     I  said: 

"Oh,  you're  too  young  to  know." 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  jg.  173 

PETTISON    TWINS   AT   KINDERGARTEN. 


Marion  Hill. 


THE  Pettison  twins  were  going  for  the  first  time  to  Miss 
Millie's  Kindergarten.  While  waiting  for  the  kinder- 
garten van  to  appear,  they  stood  on  the  curb,  while  their  mother 
improved  their  minds  through  the  channel  of  instructive  con- 
versation. 

"And,  Regina — (look  at  me;  always  look  straight  into 
mother's  eyes  when  mother  is  talking) — if  slates  are  used,  and 
Miss  Millie  hands  you  a  pencil,  remember  not  to  put  it  into  your 
mouth.  A  slate-pencil  which  goes  from  mouth  to  mouth  is  sure 
to  be  infested  with  bacilli  of  diphtheria." 

"Yes,  mamma,"  said  Regina,  dutifully. 

"And,  Rex,  no  matter  how  thirsty  you  may  become,  do  not 
touch  a  drop  of  water  unless  you  are  sure  it  has  been  filtered  and 
boiled." 

"Yes,  mamma,"  answered  Rex. 

"Regina — (how  often  do  I  have  to  tell  you  to  look  at 
mother?) — a  clean  handkerchief?     Have  you   one?" 

Crimsoning  under  horrible  doubt,  Regina  began  to  claw  up 
her  sleeves,  and  down  her  shoes,  gathering  speed  as  her  ill-luck 
grew. 

"Rex  here  interposed,  tenderly :  "Why  don't  you  try  your 
pocket,  sister?" 

There  the  linen  was  found,  and  with  a  gasp  of  surprise,  and 
relief,  Regina  rammed  it  further  down  to  keep  it  there.  She 
never  intended  to  use  it. 

Mrs.  Pettison  turned  to  Rex,  anticipating  the  same  scene. 
But  he  was  ready  for  her,  and  produced  his  immediately. 

At  this  point  the  van  appeared  and  stopped  at  the  Pettison's, 
filled  to  the  brim  with  chattering  atoms,  among  whom  the  twins 
were  hastily  packed  and  driven  away. 

Miss  Millie  had  told  Rex  several  days  before  that  he  might 
bring  with  him  to  the  kindergarten  any  little  boy  or  girl  who 


174  WERNERS  READINGS 

might  be  benefited  by  such  a  visit,  and  Rex,  who  had  settled  upon 
Jakey  Hart  for  his  guest,  was  finding  it  difficult  to  persuade  thj 
driver  of  the  van  to  stop  for  his  friend.  The  trouble  was  that 
the  driver  knew  Jakey  already,  and  had  spent  a  short  lifetime 
in  dodging  Jakey's  attentions,  ranging  all  the  way  from  cobble- 
stones to  carrots.  But  Rex  was  so  insistent  that  Jehu  finally 
turned  into  the  unsavory  alley  where  Jakey  was  waiting. 

"Whoa !  stop  the  hearse  !"  Jakey  yelled  huskily.  "This 
here's  th'  stiff  yer  lookin'  f er  !  Whoa !  I  say !  All  aboard  for 
the  morgue !"  This  was  his  manner  of  signifying  that  he  had 
climbed  in. 

When  the  children  arrived  at  the  kindergarten,  Miss  Millie 
was  waiting  for  them,  and  she  said,  "Good-morning,  Paul,  good- 
morning,  Angela,"  and  so  on  down  the  line,  to  the  embarrass- 
ment of  all  and  the  anguish  of  some. 

"Is  this  new  little  boy  your  friend,  Rex?" 

"No,  Miss  Millie." 

"Which  of  you  brought  him,  children?" 

"Oh,  I  brought  him,  Miss  Millie,  but  he  is  not  my  friend. 
He  is  a  friend  of  the  garbage  gentleman  and  rides  on  the  gar- 
bage-wagon, and  sometimes  he  comes  into  our  back  yard  and 
upsets  our  ashes,  so  I  asked  him  to  the  kindergarten." 

"And  I  am  sure  he  is  very  welcome,"  said  Miss  Millie,  in 
the  Froebelest  voice  she  could  muster. 

"And  what  is  your  name,  little  boy?" 

Jakey  grinned. 

"His  name  is  Jakey,  Miss  Millie  "  twittered  the  twins. 

"Good  morning,  Jakey." 

Jakey  grinned. 

"Good-morning,  Jakey." 

Jakey  grinned  harder. 

"Children,  Jakey  feels  shy,  so  we  must  not  expect  too  much 
of  him.     We  are  sure  that  he  feels  good-morning  in  his  heart." 

At  this  the  corners  of  the  shy  boy^s  mouth  all  but  met  at  the 
back  of  his  head,  and  Miss  Millie  felt  it  to  be  wisdom  to  send  her 
flock  to  the  anteroom  to  remove  their  wraps. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  jg.  175 

They  each  came  out  with  a  shrill  "toot !  toot !"  and  proceeded 
to  scuffle  madly  around  the  room  like  a  "choo-car."  One  may  do 
lots  of  things  at  a  kindergarten  for  which  one  gets  spanked  at 
home. 

At  a  crisis  of  noise  Miss  Millie  said  insinuatingly : 

"The  piano  will  soon  speak,  children.'' 

The  twins  and  Jakey  looked  interestingly  at  the  piano  to  see 
where  the  phonograph  was  attached,  but  when  Miss  Millie  struck 
the  instrument  it  gave  forth  only  the  thug  usual  to  pianos. 

At  the  sound  most  of  the  infants  stood  still  and  folded  their 
fat  little  arms,  but  the  rest  continued  to  cavort  madly  around. 

Miss  Millie  thugged  again  and  said  sadly: 

"The  piano  has  spoken  twice,  children/' 

At  this  all  came  to  a  decorous  stop. 

The  piano  spoke  next  in  tones  of  a  lively  march,  and  the 
little  ones  filed  around  the  room  and  took  places  upon  a  brown 
circle  painted  on  the  floor.  Down  they  sat,  Turk- fashion,  and  in 
forty-seven  different  keys  broke  into  a  cheery  warble,  "Good- 
day,  little  bird,  good-day !"  inclining  their  heads  first  to  left  and 
then  to  right. 

Though  the  twins  sat  down  and  wagged  their  heads  with 
the  rest,  the  whole  performance  appeared  to  them  as  unworthy 
the  dignity  of  the  human  race.  To  sit  on  the  floor  was  bad  enough, 
but  to  bob  your  heads  at  your  friends  and  call  them  "birds"  was 
worse.  Jakey  neither  sat  nor  sang,  nor  did  he  bob.  Like  a  tow- 
headed  Napoleon  he  stood  with  folded  arms  and  surveyed  un- 
smiling the  antics  of  his  fellows. 

The  bird  business  was  over,  the  children  scrambled  to  their 
feet  and  sang  a  squirrel  song  to  the  wriggling  of  their  finger.s. 

"And  now,  children,  let  us  take  our  seats  at  the  table  and 
listen  to  a  blackboard  story." 

In  a  twinkling  all  had  taken  possession  of  tiny  red  chairs 
and  seated  themselves  around  a  low  table.  Miss  Millie  propped  a 
book  against  the  blackboard  and  from  it  proceeded  to  give  an 

"impromptu"  lesson.     She  first  drew 

g  i  s  m  . 


176  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Pointing  to  "g"  she  began:  "Once  upon  a  time,  children,  a 
little  girl  called  Gertie  went  out  for  a  walk.  This  is  a  picture  of 
her.  You  will  know  her  every  time  you  see  her,  for  she  has  a 
curly  feather  on  the  top  of  her  hat.  She  took  with  her  this  little 
brother  of  hers"  (pointing  to  "i").  "His  name  is  Ibby.  A 
strange  name,  is  it  not?  Ibby.  Ibby  was  so  glad  to  go  that  he 
threw  his  cap  up  in  the  air.  You  can  see  it  just  above  his  head — 
they  walked  through  the  tall  grass  of  the  meadow  until  they  came* 
upon  this"  (pointing  to  "s").  "It  was  a  snake,  but  it  did  not 
frighten  them,  for  it  was  a  tame  snake,  and  it  went  's-s-s,'  as  if 
saying  'Good-morning,  children.' " 

At  the  mention  of  the  snake,  Angela  shuddered  and  shook 
her  curls  over  her  face.  Rex  looked  at  her  and  she  looked  back 
at  him  and  smiled.  A  dimpling  smile  shot  at  a  person  through 
curls  is  a  demoralizing  thing,  as  Rex  found  out  to  his  cost.  He 
lost  the  rest  of  the  story  and  only  came  to  his  senses  as  Miss 
Millie  was  pointing  to  the  period  and  saying : 

" They  were  so  tired  that  they  sat  down  on  this  stone  to 

rest.  You  must  always  rest  when  you  come  to  this  mark  in  a 
story.  Now,  you  are  going  to  tell  it  all  over  again  to  me.  What 
is  this,  Paul  ?" 

"A  little  bitty  girl  with  a  fedder  on  her  head." 

"And  what  is  her  name,  Elizabeth?" 

"Name  Gertie.  My  momma  had  a  nurse-girl  Gertie  once, 
she  did." 

"And  what  is  this,  Angela?" 

Angela's  answer  was  lost  to  Rex,  he  was  so  anxious  to  get 
another  curly  smile.  He  got  it.  Again  he  sweltered  in  rapture 
until  he  was  pulled  up  short  by  hearing  his  own  name. 

"And  what  is  this,  Rex?" 

She  was  pointing  to  the  period.  Rex  knew  it  to  be  a 
period — he  could  read  when  he  was  three  years  old — but  he  also 
knew  that  in  a  kindergarten,  everything  wasn't  itself  at  all,  so 
he  hazarded,  recklessly : 

"That  is  Ibby's  hat." 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  jp.  177 

"Aw,  haw!  aw,  haw!"  jeered  Jakey.  "You're  a  corker. 
Can't  tell  Ibby's  hat  from  a  stun  to  sit  on  when  yer  tired.  Why 
din'  yer  call  it  er  tame  snake  in  de  grass,  fur  a  flyer  ?     Aw,  haw !" 

Frightened  Miss  Millie  said,  "Look  at  the  clock,  children. 
It  is  dream  time.  We  are  all  going  to  shut  our  eyes.  Pretty 
soon  a  picture  will  come,  and  when  we  wake  we  shall  all  tell  our 
dreams.     Now  we  are  going  to  sleep." 

Miss  Millie  shut  her  eyes,  and  the  obedient  tots  followed 
suit,  Jakey  alone  presiding  as  spectator.  In  a  short  time  a  per- 
vading wriggle  warned  Miss  Millie  that  she  had  better  wake  up. 

"Oh,  what  a  lovely  sleep  we  have  had.  I  can  see  that  An- 
gela must  have  had  a  beautiful  dream.    Tell  us  what  it  was,  dear." 

Angela  danced  to  her  feet. 

"I  dw earned  I  was  in  a  garden,  an'  in  the  garden  was  a 
boo'ful  wite  wose  an'  a  but'fly  flewed  into  the  garden " 

"Flew,  dear." 

" flew  wite  on  to  the  wose  an'  went  to  sleep  there." 

"It  is  Hugh's  turn  now." 

Hugh,  a  prim,  pretty-faced  boy,  arose. 

"I  dreamed  I  was  in  a  boat,  a  little  silver  boat,  and  I  was 
on  waves,  little  silver  waves,  and  fishes  splashed  all  around  me, 
little  silver  fishes,  and  the  boat  shot  into  a  wood  and  there  was 
a  fairy  kindergarten  there,  and  the  fairy  teacher  was  called  Miss 
Millie,  and  she  was  the  best  teacher  in  the  world  and  the  pret- 
tiest." 

"Very  nicely  told,  Hugh,"  said  Miss  Millie. 

Without  waiting  for  an  invitation  Jakey  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"My  dream's  a  peach !     When  I  shet  me  eyes " 

"Shut,  dear." 

" shet,  dear.     When  I  shet  me  dear  eyes,  I  dreamed  you 


was  a  cop 

"You  were." 

"I  were " 

"No,  you  were,  I  was." 

"Well,  din'  I  say  'you  was'  the  fust  time?"  demanded  Jakey. 
"I  dreamed  you  was  a  cop — a  sparrer  cop — in  de  park  and  I 


1?8  WERNER'S  READINGS 

were  a  yaller  pup,  an'  when  I'd  git  on  de  grass  you'd  swipe 
me  wid  yer  club,  an'  wunst  I  cotched  a  holt  of  de  club  in  me 
jaws  an'  it  turned  into  a  sassage  an'  I  et  the  sassage — see?" 

Rex  saw  duty  stare  him  in  the  face. 

"Jakey,"  he  said  with  firm  sadness,  "I  do  not  think  you 
saw  all  that  when  you  shut  your  eyes/' 

"You're  'nuther  I" 

"Another  what  ?" 

'"Nuther  sozzling  gazaboo  idjit!" 

"Oh,  children,  children !     Count  ten  and  then  speak  to  Rex." 

Rex  was  mild,  Rex  was  a  philosopher,  but  his  heart  was 
the  heart  of  a  man,  and  he  hurled  himself  upon  Jakey  with  all 
the  implacable  fury  of  five-and-three-quarter  years.  Goodness 
knows  what  might  have  been  the  outcome  had  not  Miss  Millie 
fortunately  forgotten  her  professional  sweetness  and  separated 
them  with  the  force  and  precision  of  a  ring-master. 

"Gimme  me  hat  and  lemme  git  a  smell  of  air,"  snorted  Jakey, 
"I'll  git  bats  in  me  belfry  stayin'  here.  Gimme  me  hat."  And, 
without  further  formality  of  farewell,  he  dashed  through  the 
door  to  fresh  air,  freedom  and  san?  living. 

"When  the  twins  reached  home  they  decided  against  the  kin- 
dergarten. 


DUBLIN'S    SKYSCRAPERS. 


An  American,  visiting  Dublin,  told  some  startling  stories 
about  the  height  of  some  of  the  New  York  buildings.  An  Irish- 
man, who  was  listening,  stood  it  as  long  as  he  could,  and  then 
queried  : 

"  Ye  haven't  seen  our  newest  hotel,  have  ye  ?  " 

The  American  thought  not. 

"Well,"  said  the  Irishman,  "it's  so  tall  that  we  had  to  put 
the  two  top  stories  on  hinges." 

"What  for?"  asked  the  American. 

"  So  we  could  let  'em  down  till  the  moon  went  by,"  said  Pat. 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  jg.  173 

THE   BLIND   ARCHER. 


A.  Conan  Doyle. 


LITTLE  boy  Love  drew  his  bow  at  a  chance, 
Shooting  down  at  the  ball-room  floor ; 
He  hit  an  old  chaperon  watching  the  dance, 
And,  oh,  but  he  wounded  her  sore. 
"Hey,  Love,  you  couldn't  mean  that! 
Hi,  Love,  what  would  you  be  at?" 
No  word  would  he  say, 
But  he  flew  on  his  way, 
For  the  little  boy's  busy,  and  how  could  he  stay  ? 

Little  boy  Love  drew  a  shaft  just  for  sport 

At  the  soberest  club  in  Pall  Mall; 
He  winged  an  old  veteran  drinking  his  port, 
And  down  that  old  veteran  fell. 
"Hey,  Love,  you  mustn't  do  that! 
Hi,  Love,  what  would  you  be  at? 
This  cannot  be  right ! 
It's  ludicrous  quite !" 
But  it's  no  use  to  argue,  for  Love's  out  of  sight. 

A  sad-faced  young  clerk  in  a  cell  all  apart 

Was  planning  a  celibate  vow  ; 
But  the  boy's  random  arrow  has  sunk  in  his  heart, 
And  the  cell  is  an  empty  one  now. 
"Hey,   Love,  you   mustn't   do  that! 
Hi,  Love,  what  would  you  be  at? 
He  is  not  for  you, 
He  has  duties  to  do." 
"But  I  am  his  duty,"  quoth  Love,  as  he  flew. 


180  WERNER'S  READINGS 

The  king  sought  a  bride,  and  the  nation  had  hoped 

For  a  queen  without  rival  or  peer. 
But  the  little  boy  shot,  and  the  king  has  eloped 
With  Miss  No-one,  on  nothing  a  year. 
"Hey,  Love,  you  mustn't  do  that! 
Hi,  Love,  what  would  you  be  at? 
What  an  impudent  thing 
To  make  game  of  a  king!" 
"But  I'm  a  king,  also,"  cried  Love  on  the  wing. 

Little  boy  Love  grew  pettish  one  day ; 

"If  you  keep  on  complaining,"  he  swore, 
"I'll  pack  both  my  bow  and  my  quiver  away, 
And  so  I  shall  plague  you  no  more." 
"Hey,  Love,  you  mustn't  do  that ! 
Hi,  Love,  what  would  you  be  at? 
You  may  ruin  our  ease, 
You  may  do  what  you  please, 
But  we  can't  do  without  you,  you  sweet  little  tease. 


BRER  RABBIT  AND  BRER  BEAR. 


Joel  Chandler  Harris. 


ONE  year  Brer  Bear  he  have  a  pen  of  fine  hogs  just  ready 
for  the  smoke-house.  But  just  before  the  Christmas  season 
come  on,  every  morning  when  Brer  Bear  fotch  out  his  corn  to 
feed  the  hogs,  Brer  Bear  he  done  count  them,  and  he  find  one 
gone ;  and  the  next  morning  Brer  Bear  done  count  them,  and 
he  find  one  more  gone;  and  so  it  go  twell  nigh  'bout  the  lasest 
one  of  Brer  Bear's  fine  fat  hogs  done  gone. 

Now  Brer  Bear  he  'low  he  bound  to  find  out  who  the  thief 
what  steal  his  hogs ;  so  all  enduring  the  Christmas  holidays  Brer 
Bear  he  visit  among  his  neighbors  constant,  and  they  all  say, 
"What  come  over  Brer  Bear,  he  getting  that  sociable?" 


. 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  39.  181 


But  when  Brer  Bear  visiting,  Brer  Bear  he  be  a-looking, 

;  and  he  be  a-looking,  and  he  be  a-smelling  for  them  fine  hogs. 

Well,  Brer  Bear  he  go  to  visit  Brer  Fox,  and  he  don'  see 

nothing  and  he  don'  smell  nothing;  and  then  Brer  Bear  he  go 

visit  Sis  Coon,  but  he  don'  smell  nothing  and  he  don'  see  nothing ; 

i  then  Brer  Bear  he  call  on  Brer  Wolf,  but  he  don'  see  nothing 

and  he  don'  smell  nothing. 

Then  Brer  Bear  he  call  on  Brer  Rabbit.     Brer  Bear  he  knock 

on  the  door,  and  Miss  Rabbit  she  open  the  door,  and  invite  Brer 

Bear  in.     Brer  Bear  he  say,  "Where  Brer  Rabbit?"  and  Miss 

Rabbit  she  say,  "Brer  Rabbit  gone  to  quarterly  meeting,"  being 

;  as  he  one  of  the  stewards  of  the  church. 

Brer  Bear  he  say  he  want  a  fresh  drink,  and  he  go  out  to 
the  well-house,  and  he  sees  where  they  been  killing  hogs. 
Now  Brer  Bear  he  know  Brer  Rabbit  didn't  put  no  hogs  up 
in  the  pen.  Brer  Bear  he  walk  'round  and  'round  and  he  say, 
"I  smell  the  blood  of  my  land." 

And    Brer   Bear   he   taunt   Miss   Rabbit   with   Brer   Rabbit 

stealing  all  his  fine  hogs,  and  he  say  how  he  going  straight  up 

to  quarterly  meeting  to  catch  Brer  Rabbit,  and  Brer  Bear  he 

roll  his  hands  and  arms  in  the  blood  and  he  say  he  going  take  the 

!  proof. 

Now  Miss  Rabbit  certainly  are  a  faithful  wife.     When  Brer 
Bear  start  off  down  the  big  road  toward  the  quarterly  meeting, 
Miss   Rabbit   she   take   a  short   cut  through   the   woods,   lipity, 
i  clipity.     She  get  there  before  Brer  Bear. 

Miss  Rabbit  she  go  in  and  take  a  seat  longside  Brer  Rabbit. 
!  She  whisper  in  his  ear,  "Trouble,  trouble,  watch  out.     Brer  Bear 
She  say  he  smell  the  blood  of  his  land,  trouble,  trouble."      Brer 
1  Rabbit  he  say,  "Hush  your  mouth,"  and  he  go  on  with  the  meet- 
ing.    Now  Brer  Bear  ain't  the  onliest  man  what  has  been  losing 
hogs  that*  Christmas.     Brer  Wolf  he  done  lose  some  o'  his  fine 
shotes ;   somebody   done   take   his   onliest   hog   outen    Brer    Fox 
pen.     They  take  it  up  in  meeting  and  make  it  subject  of  inquiry. 
They    put    it    on    old  Brer  Rabbit,  so  the  old  man  don't  know 
which  way  he  going  to  get  to,  when  Brer  Bear  walk  in,  and  his 


182  WERNER'S  READINGS 

hands  and  arms  covered  with  blood,  what  he  take  to  prove  u; 
old  Brer  Rabbit  before  the  meeting. 

Directly  Brer  Bear  walk  in  the  door  with  the  blood  01 
his  hands,  Brer  Rabbit  he  clap  his  hands  and  he  shout,  "Prais 
the  Lord,  brethern !  The  Lord  done  deliver  me,  and  bring  fortl 
his  witness !"  and  the  people  all  that  distracted  they  don'  listei 
to  a  word  poor  old  Brer  Bear  say,  but  they  all  talk,  and  tak 
votes,  and  they  turn  out  old  Brer  Bear  right  there;  and  tha 
why  old  Brer  Bear  ain't  no  churchman.  But  Brer  Rabbit  h 
run  the  church  yet,  and  they  say  how  he  never  miss  quarterl; 
meeting. 


NATHAN'S   FLAT. 


Edmund  Vance  Cooke. 


NATHAN  wrote  that   he  V  his  wife  was   livin'  in  a  flat 
"Gracious  me!"  says  mother,  why,  what  sort  o'  place  is  that?' 
"Well/'  I  says,  "it's  one  o'  them  there  places,  don't  you  know 
'At  folks  live  in,  likely,"  an'  mother  says,  "Jesso !" 
But  'bout  a  half  hour  later,  she  broke  out,  "I'd  give  a  cent 
If  I  could  sort  o'  puzzle  out  what  Nathan  really  meant." 

Now  ain't  that  like  a  woman?  You  can  tell  'em  what  is  what; 
You  can  show  'em  plain  as  preachin',  but  it's  just  as  like  as  not 
When  ye've  argied  an'  convinced  '  em  an'  yeh  think  ye've  surely 

fetched  'em, 
They'll  bust  out  just  where  they  started,  same  as  though. yeh 

hadn't  tetched  'em. 
"Well,"  I  says,  "we'll  go  to  see  'em,  then,  an'  that'll  stop  yer 

clatter," 
For  I  own  that  I  was  cui'ous  like,  myself,  about  the  matter! 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  39.  183 

ipo  we  went  an'  Nathan  met  us.    Wan't  we  glad  to  see  his  face ! 

An'  he  rid  us  on  a  cable  till  we  reached  a  stoppin'  place. 
An'  he  says,  "We're  here !"  an'  first  I  knowed    I  was  a-standin' 
there 

\-gawpin'  at  a  buildin'  that  was  higher  in  the  air 

Than  the   Presbyterian   steeple.     An'   I   says,   "My  conscience, 

Nat, 
}[t  can't  be  sech  a  stuck-up  thing  is  what  ye  call  a  flat?" 
[But  he  only  smiled  an'  nodded  an'  he  took  us  in  the  hall, 
An'  mother  says,  "Why  Nathan,  do  yeh  occupy  it  all  ?" 

Then  we  got  into  a  little  coop,  an'  Nathan  he  says,  "Seven !" 

An'  in  another  second  we  was  shootin'  up  to  heaven. 

Mother  shet  her  teeth  an'    helt  her  breath  an"  trembled  'roun' 

the   eyes. 
An'  my  heart  fell  in  my  stomach,  it  was  sech  a  sudden  rise. 

1  % 

Then  in  another  jiffy,  we  was  into  Nathan's  flat — 

Six  rooms,  about  the  size  of  t'iree,  an'  darn  small  three  at  that, 

But  some  things  was  pretty  handy.    They  was  places  in  the  wall 

Where  ye'd  go  an'  talk  to  people  'at  yeh  couldn't  see  at  all. 

There  was  one  place  where  ye'd  turn  a  wheel  to  squirt  a  little 

heat, 
An'  the  cellar  was  a  little  box  containing  things  to  eat- 
Then  there  was  one  extravygance  'at  mother  thought  a  sin ; 
They  had  spiled  a  good-sized  close-press  fer  to  put  a  bathtub  in. 
Gee!  it  made  me  think  of  tombstones,  it  was  all  so  white  an'  shiny, 
But  mother  she  peered  into  it  an'  says,  "I  vum ;  it's  chiny !" 
Nathan's  wife  was  kind  o'  laughin',  so  I  fixed  my  eyes  on  her, 
An'  says,  solemn,  "Read  yer  Bible  of  the  whited  sepulchre?" 
Bathtubs !     Why,  if  I'd  a  mind  to,  I  could  tell  yeh  pretty  quick 
Of  the  time  when  Nathan's  bathtub  was  the  hull  of  Simpson's 

creek ! 
An'  the  sunshine  was  a  towel  fer  him,  an'  if  by  any  chance, 
He  couldn't  wait  fer  dryin',  why  he  used  his  coat  an'  pants. 


184  WERNER'S  READINGS 

An'    on  Sat'dy  nights  in  winter,  mother'd  fetch  the  washin'-tub, 
An'  she'd  heat  enough  of  water  fer  all  han's  to  take  a  scrub, 
An'  she'd  pester  Nat,  "Git  ready !"  till  at  last  he'd  sort  o'  squeak, 
"Ma,  I  honest  don't  believe  I  need  a  bath  this  week!" 
But  she'd  shet  him  in  the  kitchen,  an'  he'd  grunt  an'  puff  an' 

spatter, 
Till  you'd  thought  a  steamboat  bust-up  was  the  least  could  be 

the  matter. 

"Yes,  an'  then  I'd  mop,"  says  mother,  "an'  blow  out  the  kitchen 

light, 
An'  I'd  foller  Nat  upstairs  to  kiss  my  little  boy  'Good-night !' 
An'  it  kindo'  seemed  that  me  an'  God  was  watchin'  there  by 

Nat, 
But  I  don't  believe  I'd  ever  have  sech  f eelin's  in  a  flat !" 


OPPORTUNITY. 


John  J.  Ingalls. 


M 


ASTER  of  human  destinies  am  I. 
Fame,  Love  and  Fortune  on  my  footsteps  wait. 


Cities   and   fields   I   walk:   I   penetrate   deserts   and   seas 

remote,   and   passing   by 
Hovel  and  mart  and  palace,  soon  or  late 
I  knock  unbidden  once  at  every  gate ! 
If  sleeping,  wake;  if  feasting,  rise  before 
I  turn  away.     It  is  the  hour  of  Fate. 
And  they  who  follow  me  reach  every  state 
Mortals  desire,  and  conquer  every  foe 
Save  death :  but  those  who  doubt  or  hesitate, 
Condemned  to  failure,  penury  and  woe, 
Seek  me  in  vain  and  uselessly  implore. 
I  answer  not  and  I  return  no  more. 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  39.  185 

DYING   SCOUT. 


William  Lawrence  Chittenden. 


"OOME,  Pinto,  ole  feller,  creep  close  to  me  side, 

V>    Fer  the  norther  iz  comin'  across  the  Divide. 
This  pain  it  ar'  awful,  an'  the  meat  iz  all  gone, 
An'  the  fire  won't  last,  I'm  afreed,  till  the  morn, 
An'  our  blanket  iz  ragged;   but  we  iz  alone, 
So  we'll  share  it  ter-night,  though  I'm  cold  as  a  stone; 
But  them  flames  iz  a-laughin'  an'  smilin'  with  glow, ' 
An'  they  make  me  feel  good  like  in  days  long  ergo, 
When  I  wuz  light-hearted  an'  wuzn't  a  fool, 
An'  played  mumblepeg  on  the  grass  near  the  school, 
With  dear  little  Bess — bless  her  honest  blue  eyes — 
But  she's  far  away,  maybe  home  in  the  skies. 


"But,  Pinto,  ole  feller,  thet  mother  uv  mine, 
Wuz  the  darlin'est  mother,   jist  angel  divine, 
She'd  nurs'  the  sick  nabors,  wharever  they'd  be, 
An'  she  allers  wuz  prayin'  fer  Sandy  an'  me. 
Then  thar  wuz  Aunt  Lucy,  so  gentle  an'  mild ; 
She  allers  wuz  smilin'  an'  said,  I  'wuz  wild'; 
Yet  somehow  she  liked  me,  it  wuz  no  mistake, 
Fer  she  allers  wuz  giv'n'  me  soft  ginger-cake, 
An'  she'd  tell  me  long  stories  an'  sing  ter  me,  too— 
Oh,  I  tell  yer,  I  loved  her,  I  loved  me  Aunt  Lou. 
An'  some  day,  ole  feller,  when  I'm  over  this  pain, 
We'll  go  home  tergether,  an'  be  happy  again. 

"We'll  find  the  old  homestid,  with  its  birds  an'  its  trees, 
Whar  life  wuz  all  music,  an'  flowers,  an'  bees; 
Whar  I  loved  to  go  swimmin'  with  the  lilies  so  cool, 
In  them  long  years  ergo  when  I  hated  the  school. 


186  WERNER'S  READINGS 

But  the  fire  iz  dying — it's  dark  an'  so  cold, 
An',  Pinto,  ole   feller,  I*m  puny  an'  old; 
An'  the  door  iz  a-creakin'  so  sad  in  the  wind, 
But  we'z  close  tergether,  ole  chap,  never  mind. 
Hez  I  ever  hurt  yer  sence  I  found  yer  that  day, 
A  perp  on  the  trail,  an'  the  boys  far  away? 
So,  Pinto,  good  feller,  creep  close  to  me  side, 
Fer  the  norther  is  moanin'  across  the  Divide. 

"Hark !    music !    I  heers  it  so  mournful  an'  strange, 

Like  lost  children's  wailin',  outside  on  the  range; 

But  the  coyotes  are  watchin'  our  dugout  ter-night, 

They're  waitin'  fer  me,  an'  they're  hungry  with  fight; 

An'  I  am  so  puny,  an'  so  shiverin',  too, 

But,  Pinto,  dear  feller,  I'm    pardners  with  you ; 

An'  you  ar"  so  honest,  an'  faithful  an'  brave, 

Thet  yer'd  starve  ter  death  on  yer  ole  marster's  grave; 

But  I  feels  better  now,  than  fer  many  a  day, 

So  cheer  up,  ole  feller,  don't  whine  thet  'er'  way; 

Fer  when  the  perairies  iz  kivcred  with  flowers, 

An'  the  mockin'-birds  sing  an'  the  hills  iz  all  ours, 

We'll  hunt  an'  we'll  roam  az  we  did  long  ergo, 

Two  pardners  tergether,  in  pleasure  an'  woe ; 

An'  we'll  go  home  agin,  to  the  banks  of  the  stream, 

Whar  the  ole  folks  iz  livin'  an'  life  iz  a  dream; 

An'  with  all  our  wrong-doin's  we'll  try  ter  live  right ; 

An',  Pinto,  dear   feller — old  Pinto  ! — good  night !" 

But  Pinto,  poor  fellow,  moans  wild  at  his  side, 

For  the  scout,  with  the  norther,  has  crossed  the  Divide. 


WHAT   HE   'WAS. 


Stock  Speculator.     I  invested  in  stocks  and  lost  heavily. 
Sympathizer.     That's  too  bad.     Were  you  a  bull  or  a  bear? 
Stock  Speculator.     Neither ;  I  was  a  jackass. 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  jg. 
SISTER'S    BEST    FELLER. 


Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 


M 


Y  sister's  best  feller  is  'most  six-foot  three, 
And  handsome  and  strong  as  a  feller  can  be; 


And  Sis,  she's  so  little,  and  slender,  and  small, 
You  never  would  think  she  could  boss  him  at  all; 

But,  by  jing! 

She  don't  do  a  thing 

But  make  him  jump  'round,  like  he  worked  with  a  string 
It  jest  makes  me  'shamed  of  him  sometimes,  you  know, 
To  think  that  he'll  let  a  girl  bully  him  so. 
V 

He  goes  to  walk  with  her  and  carries  her  muff 

And  coat  and  umbrella,  and  that  kind  of  stuff ; 

She  loads  him  with  things  that  must  weigh  'most  a  ton ; 

And,  honest,  he  likes  it, — as  if  it  was  fun  ! 

And,  oh,  say ! 

When  they  go  to  a  play, 

He'll  sit  in  the  parlor  and  fidget  away, 
And  she  won't  come  down  till  it's  quarter-past  eight, 
And  then  she'll  scold  him  'cause  they  get  there  so  late. 


He  spends  heaps  of  money  a-buying  her  things, 
Like  candy,  and  flowers,  and  presents,  and  rings ; 
And  all  he's  got  for  'em's  a  handkerchief  case — 
A  fussed-up  concern,  made  of  ribbon  and  lace; 

But,  my  land ! 

He  thinks  it's  just  grand, 

"  'Cause  she  made  it,"  he  says,  "with  her  own  little  hand" ; 
He  calls  her  "an  angel" — T  heard  him — and  "saint," 
And  "beautif'lest  bein'  on  earth" — but  she  ain't. 


188  WERNER'S  READINGS 

'Fore  /  go'  an  errand  for  her  any  time 
I  jest  make  her  coax  me  and  give  me  a  dime ; 
But  that  great,  big  silly — why,  honest  and  true — 
He'd  run  forty  miles  if  she  wanted  him  to. 

Oh,  gee  whiz! 

I  tell  you  what  'tis ! 

I  jest  think  it's  awful — those  actions  of  his. 
/  won't  fall  in  love,  when  I'm  grown — no,  sir-ee! 
My  sister's  best  feller's  a  warnin'  to  me! 


WAIL   OF   A   WAITRESS. 


Ethel  M.  Kelley. 


HE  had  the  nerve  to  bring  her  here  to  eat; 
I  seen  them  comin'  half-way  down  the  street, 
An'  I  was  ready  for  them,  you  can  bet. 
I  ain't  a-showiir    the  white   feather  yet; 
She's  got  my  beau,  but  I  don't  say  I'm  beat. 
I  waited  till  they'd  settled  in  their  seat. 
"Fine  day,"  I  says  to  him  real  soft  and  sweet. 
"Fine  day,"  he  says,  '"F  you  like  your  weather  wet.' 

He  had  the  nerve ! 
Don't  say  a  word,  I  fixed  that  couple  neat ! 
He  acted  like  he's  crazy  with  the  heat ; — 
He  didn't  have  no  notion  what  he  et. 
He  can't  come  here  to  jolly  up  his  pet. 
She  didn't  come  this  way  with  willin'  feet — 

He  had  the  nerve. 


SCENE    FROM    PINERO'S    "THE    AMAZONS." 


Wilhelmina  {daughter  of  English  lady  who  has  trained  hei 
girls  as  boys,  finding  her  mother  and  rector  in  conversation} 
Have  you  and  mother  been  talking  ? 

Rector.  What  d'ye  think  we  have  been  doing — playing 
leap-frog  ?  % 


AND  RECITA  TIONS  NO.  39.  189 

CHRISTMAS   SUBSTITUTE. 


Anna  Sprague  Packard. 


[From  Youth's  Companion.    By  special  permission.] 

TEDDY  FITZGERALD,  the  East  Side  boy,  who  had,  at  the 
last  moment,  been  brought  to  St.  Martin's  Cathedral  to  sub- 
stitute for  a  choir-boy  who  was  ill,  stood  in  his  place  in  front  of 
Charley  Reed,  an  open  hymnal  in  his  hand. 

The  boy  with  the  cross  took  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  pro- 
cession. The  clergy  came  down  the  steps  into  the  choir-room. 
There  was  a  short  prayer,  a  quick  "Amen"  chanted  by  the  boys, 
then  the  first  verse  of  the  "Adeste  Fideles." 

The  doors  of  the  choir-room  were  thrown  back  and  Teddy 
Fitzgerald -was  in  the  house  of  God  for  the  first  time. 

Churches  had  been  quite  outside  Teddy's  life.  In  the  sum- 
mer-time he  had  stolen  his  way  upon  several  Sunday-school  pic- 
nics up  the  river  on  a  barge.  Once  he  had  gone  to  help  break  up 
a  Salvation  Army  meeting ;  but  these  had  been  his  sole  experiences 
touching  religion. 

And  now  here  he  was — a  heathen  in  a  long  black  cassock 
and  snow-white  cotta,  his  face  radiant  with  joy,  keeping  perfect 
time  as  the  long  line  sv/ept  though  the  transept  and  into  the 
chancel. 

During  the  service,  Charley  Reed  nudged  him  to  kneel,  sit 
or  stand,  as  the  occasion  demanded;  and  Teddy  obeyed  implic- 
itly. When  the  chanting  of  the  Psalms  began,  he  took  his  first 
active  part.  They  were  Gregorian  chants,  and  the  boy  quickly 
caught  the  movement,  for  he  loved  music  passionately.  He  had 
never  heard  any  really  great  music.  -  The  best  had  been  at  the 
Central  Park  concerts  on  Saturday  afternoons,  when  the  child 
would  sit,  forgetful  of  the  black  past  and  the  blacker  future, 
wrapped  in  that  bliss  which  only  a  musical  soul  can  know. 

One  masterpiece  followed  another — the  "Te  Deum"  and  then 


190  WERNER'S  READINGS 

the  Creed.     Charley  Reed  had  solos  in  both.    Teddy  listened  en-  i 
viously. 

"I  bet  yer  I  could  do  it,  if  I  only  knew  how!  I  bet  yer  I 
could  put  more  'go'  into  her !"  he  thought. 

Then  followed  some  prayers,  to  which  Teddy  paid  no  at- 
tention, and  then  a  carol.  Teddy  read,  "O  little  town  of  Beth- 
lehem" ;  he  wondered  where  the  town  was,  and  what  there  could 
be  to  write  about  it. 

He  listened  through  the  first  verse ;  with  the  second,  he 
began  to  sing.  The  choir-master  heard  and  wondered.  Above 
the  choir,  above  even  Charley  Reed's  sweet  soprano,  rang  the  con- 
tralto with  its  rare,  pathetic  quality,  and  the  congregation  listened 
with  hushed  hearts. 

All  through  the  sermon  Teddy  looked  at  the  shining  marble 
altar  and  above  it  the  picture  of  a  child — a  boy — with  outstretched 
arms,  coming  toward  him  through  a  field  of  lilies. 

All  through  the  service  a  name  was  repeated  which  was 
horribly  familiar  to  the  boy,  and  he  wondered  as  he  saw  the 
bowed  heads.  This  must  be  He,  then !  He  gazed  at  the  picture 
with  longing  in  his  keen  eyes.  "Why,  He  is  a  boy,  and  coming 
toward  me/' 

"I  wish  He  wouldn't  look  at  me  like  that !  Seems  as  if  He 
wanted  r.ie  to  do  somethin'  for  Him.  Kinder  sorry,  too.  Looks 
like  He'd  lived  on  the  East  Side,  so  poor  and  mournful.  I  bet 
yer  He  knows  what  it  is  to  be  cold  and  hungry,  and  sleep  in  a 
barrel !  I  wish  I  hadn't  knocked  down  that  little  kid'  goin'  for 
beer  this  mornin',  or  cheated  Jim  at  'craps'."  And  so,  while  the 
good  rector  preached  in  the  pulpit,  the  Boy  above  the  altar 
preached  to  the  boy  below. 

Suddenly  Charley  Reed  said,  "I  say,  Teddy,  you'll  have  to 
go  to  the  gate  and  receive  the  contribution.  I  sing  a  solo  in  the 
offertory.  Do  just  as  Tom  does,  keep  step,  and  don't  bungle,  for 
then  they'll  blame  me !" 

Teddy  bungle !  He  marched  in  perfect  time,  and  stood 
facing  the  vast  congregation.       "All  blokes   from  the  avenue!" 


r 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  39.  191 

nought,  and  became  himself  again — bitter,  hard,  defiant. 

Two  by  two,  the  vestrymen  came  up,  each  emptying  his  full 

;  into  the  larger  ones  held  by  the  boys.  What  heaps  of  money  ! 

Right  beside  Teddy's  thumb  lay  a  bill  folded  very  small.     As 

dieeled  he  put  his  thumb  on  it  and  with  a  dexterous  movement 
sealed  it  in  his  palm. 

He  went  back  to   his  stall,   flushed  with  triumph,   but  the 

ling  notes  «f  Gounod's  "Sanctus"  brought  him  a  new  feeling. 

As  the  first  "Holy,  Holy"  stole  out,  he  forgot  his  money  and 
althe  glories  it  could  buy.  Again  and  again  rang  out  the  mar- 
vi/ius  cry,  and  the  heart  of  the  boy  went  with  it. 

He  looked  at  the  picture  with  a  radiant  smile.  This  must 
n  f:e  Him  glad!  The  sunshine  fell  on  the  calm  face,  and  a  pang 
st?.ck  into  Teddy's  heart  like  a  knife.  The  money!  He  had 
taferi  it  from  Him!  And  as  he  laid  his  head  down  on  the  stall, 
apigony  which  no  hunger,  or  cold,  or  pain,  had  ever  forced  from 

racked  him.     Teddy  Fitzgerald's  soul  was  being  born. 

The  service  ended,  the  procession  moved  out  of  the  church 

into  the  choir-room  once  more.  "Here's  your  fifty  cents," 
sj?j[  the  choir-master.  "Come  around  to-morrow  morning  at 
and  let  me  try  your  voice.  I  think  you  have  a  fortune 
l!,ce." 

Teddy  turned  away  and  went  out  into  the  street  still  holding 
t|l|  service  sheet  lightly  in  his  hand. 

That  same  evening,  as  the  rector  of  St.  Martin's  rose  from 

Christmas  dinner,  a  servant  entered  to  say  that  a  policeman 
\jrJ5  waiting  to  see  him. 

"Sorry  to  disturb  you,  sir,  but  there's  a  boy  been  asking  for 
1  at  Bellevue  Hospital,  and  as  the  doctors  say  he  won't  live 
morning,  why,  I've  come  for  you.  He's  just  been  run  over  by 
j^able-car  on  Third  avenue." 

Before  long  the  rector  was  leaning  over  the  crushed  frame 
Teddy  Fitzgerald. 

"Gimn»ie  monev,"  said  the  boy  to  the  nurse,  "and  then  go 
ly!" 


192 


WERNERS  READINGS 


"Here  it  is !  Give  it  back  to  Him !  I  swiped  it  this  mormn' 
out  of  your  collection-plate.  All  the  afternoon  I  tried  to  spend 
it  and  I  couldn't.  I  could  see  Him  a-lookin'  at  me — Him  behind 
the  altar,  a-comin'  through  the  lily-field  after  me !  So  I  was 
comin'  back  with  it  to  yer,  when  I  clipped  on  ":he  track." 

"Please  believe  me — 'taint  because  I  know  it's  all  up  wid  me 
that  I'm  sorry,  but — because  I  couldn't  be  such  ,a  sneak  to  Him! 
You  see  He  was  like  me.     He  had  lots  against'  Him!" 

The  rector's  white  head  sank,  and  he  prayed,  holding  the 
grimy  hand  which  had  fought  the  world  from  'the  start. 

The  little  life  was  drifting  fast  now,  and  ne  was  babbling 
of  the  streets,  their  length,  their  heat,  their  chin.  Suddenly  he 
began  to  sing : 


"  O  little  town  of  Bethlel  dk 

How  still  we  see  thee  lie ! 
Above  thy  deep  and  dreamless  sleep 

The  silent  stars  go  by. 
Yet  in  thy  dark  streets  shineth 

The  everlasting  light ! 
The  hopes  and  fears  of  all  the  years 

Are  met  in  thee  to-nigl-i.  ' 


A  rapturous  look  came  into  the  dving  eyes,  and  Teddy  Fit? 
gerald  had  passed  out  of  his  world  of  sorrow. 


